3   1822  01214  4283 


3  1822  01214  4283 


;?  *r" 
o  o 


3 


I 


By  MYRTLE  REED 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  MUSICIAN 
LATER  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  MUSICIAN 
THE  SPINSTER  BOOK 
LAVENDER  AND  OLD  LACE 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


Lavender 

and 

Old  Laco 


By  Mvrtle  Reed 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
New  York  and  London 
fmicfcerboc&er  press 
1902 


COPYRIGHT,  1902 

BY 
MYRTLE  REED 


Published,  September,  1902 
Reprinted,  Oct.,  1902  ;  Nov.,  1902 


"Cbe  f?n(cfeerbocfcer  press,  mew  l.'crh 


iii 

Contents 

PAGE 

I.  —  THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  WINDOW 

I 

Contents 

II.  —  THE  ATTIC. 

22 

III.  —  Miss  AINSLIE 

•      39 

IV.—  A  GUEST    .... 

•      54 

V.  —  THE  RUMOURS  OF  THE  VALLEY 

.      67 

VI.  —  THE  GARDEN 

.      81 

VII.  —  THE  MAN  WHO  HESITATES  . 

.      98 

VIII.  —  SUMMER  DAYS     . 

.       I  10 

IX.  —  BY  HUMBLE  MEANS 

.     125 

X.  —  LOVE  LETTERS     . 

.     138 

XI.  —  THE  ROSE  OF  ALL  THE  WORLD 

.     152 

XII.  —  BRIDE  AND  GROOM 

.     159 

XIII.—  PLANS        .... 

•     177 

XIV.  —  "  FOR  REMEMBRANCE  " 

•     199 

XV.  —  THE  SECRET  AND  THE  DREAM 

.       222 

XVI.  —  SOME  ONE  WHO  LOVED  HER 

.       241 

XVIL—  DAWN        .... 

in  tbe  TPOUnfcow 


A  RICKETY  carriage  was  slowly  ascending 
the  hill,  and  from  the  place  of  honour  on 
the  back  seat,  the  single  passenger  surveyed  the 
country  with  interest  and  admiration.  The 
driver  of  that  ancient  chariot  was  an  awkward 
young  fellow,  possibly  twenty-five  years  of 
age,  with  sharp  knees,  large,  red  hands,  high 
cheek-bones,  and  abundant  hair  of  a  shade 
verging  upon  orange.  He  was  not  unpleas 
ant  to  look  upon,  however,  for  he  had  a  cer 
tain  evident  honesty,  and  he  was  disposed  to 
be  friendly  to  every  one. 

"Be  you  comfortable,  Miss?"  he  asked, 
with  apparent  solicitude. 

"Very  comfortable,  thank  you,"  was  the 
quiet  response. 

He  urged  his  venerable  steeds  to  a  gait  of 
about  two  miles  an  hour,  then  turned  side 
ways. 


Cbc  Ifgbt 
In  tbe 


Xavenfcer  anfc 


tCbe 

intbe 
TOUndow 


"Be  you  goin'  to  stay  long,  Miss  ? " 

"All  Summer,  I  think." 

"Do  tell!" 

The  young  woman  smiled  in  listless  amuse 
ment,  but  Joe  took  it  for  conversational  en 
couragement.  "City  folks  is  dretful  bashful 
when  they  's  away  from  home,"  he  said  to 
himself.  He  clucked  again  to  his  unheeding 
horses,  shifted  his  quid,  and  was  casting  about 
for  a  new  topic  when  a  light  broke  in  upon 
him. 

"I  guess,  now,  that  you're  Miss  Hatha- 
way's  niece,  what 's  come  to  stay  in  her  house 
while  she  goes  gallivantin'  and  travellin'  in 
furrin  parts,  be  n't  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  Miss  Hatha way's  niece,  and  I  have 
never  been  here  before.  Where  does  she  live?" 

"  Up  yander." 

He  flourished  the  discarded  fish-pole  which 
served  as  a  whip,  and  pointed  out  a  small 
white  house  on  the  brow  of  the  hill.  Reflec 
tion  brought  him  the  conviction  that  his  re 
mark  concerning  Miss  Hathaway  was  a  social 
mistake,  since  his  passenger  sat  very  straight, 
and  asked  no  more  questions. 

The  weary  wheels  creaked,  but  the  collapse 
which  Miss  Thorne  momentarily  expected  was 


3Lt0bt  in  tbe  Winfcow 


mercifully  postponed.  Being  gifted  with  im 
agination,  she  experienced  the  emotion  of  a 
wreck  without  bodily  harm.  As  in  a  photo 
graph,  she  beheld  herself  suddenly  projected 
into  space,  followed  by  her  suit  case,  felt  her 
new  hat  wrenched  from  her  head,  and  saw 
hopeless  gravel  stains  upon  the  tailored  gown 
which  was  the  pride  of  her  heart.  She  thought 
a  sprained  ankle  would  be  the  inevitable  out 
come  of  the  fall,  but  was  spared  the  pain  of  it, 
for  the  inability  to  realise  an  actual  hurt  is  the 
redeeming  feature  of  imagination. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  snort  of  terror  from 
one  of  the  horses,  and  the  carriage  stopped 
abruptly.  Ruth  clutched  her  suit  case  and 
umbrella,  instantly  prepared  for  the  worst; 
but  Joe  reassured  her. 

''Now  don't  you  go  and  get  skeered,  Miss," 
he  said,  kindly;  '"taint  nothin'  in  the  world 
but  a  rabbit.  Mamie  can't  never  get  used  to 
rabbits,  someways."  He  indicated  one  of  the 
horses — a  high,  raw-boned  animal,  sketched 
on  a  generous  plan,  whose  ribs  and  joints 
protruded,  and  whose  rough  white  coat  had 
been  weather-worn  to  grey. 

"Hush  now,  Mamie,"  he  said;  "'t  aint 
nothin'." 


anfc 


Xace 


TTbe  Xigbt 
in  tbe 


"Mamie"  looked  around  inquiringly,  with 
one  ear  erect  and  the  other  at  an  angle.  A 
cataract  partially  concealed  one  eye,  but  in  the 
other  was  a  world  of  wickedness  and  know 
ledge,  modified  by  a  certain  lady-like  reserve. 

"  G'  long,  Mamie!  " 

Ruth  laughed  as  the  horse  resumed  motion 
in  mincing,  maidenly  steps.  "What's  the 
other  one's  name?"  she  asked. 

"Him?  His  name 's  Alfred.  Mamie's  his 
mother." 

Miss  Thorne  endeavoured  to  conceal  her 
amusement  and  Joe  was  pleased  because  the 
ice  was  broken.  "  I  change  their  names  every 
once  in  a  while,"  he  said,  "'cause  it  makes 
some  variety,  but  now  I  've  named  'em  about 
all  the  names  I  know." 

The  road  wound  upward  in  its  own  lazy 
fashion,  and  there  were  trees  at  the  left, 
though  only  one  or  two  shaded  the  hill  itself. 
As  they  approached  the  summit,  a  girl  in  a 
blue  gingham  dress  and  a  neat  white  apron 
came  out  to  meet  them. 

"Come  right  in,  Miss  Thorne,"  she  said, 
"and  I'll  explain  it  to  you." 

Ruth  descended,  inwardly  vowing  that  she 
would  ride  no  more  in  Joe's  carriage,  and  after 


OUgbt  In  tbe  Minnow 


giving  some  directions  about  her  trunk,  fol 
lowed  her  guide  indoors. 

The  storm-beaten  house  was  certainly  en 
titled  to  the  respect  accorded  to  age.  It  was 
substantial,  but  unpretentious  in  outline,  and 
had  not  been  painted  for  a  long  time.  The 
faded  green  shutters  blended  harmoniously 
with  the  greyish  white  background,  and  the 
piazza,  which  was  evidently  an  unhappy  after 
thought  of  the  architect,  had  two  or  three  new 
shingles  on  its  roof. 

"You  see  it's  this  way,  Miss  Thorne,"  the 
maid  began,  volubly;  "Miss  Hathaway,  she 
went  earlier  than  she  laid  out  to,  on  account 
of  the  folks  decidin'  to  take  a  steamer  that 
sailed  beforehand — before  the  other  one,  I 
mean.  She  went  in  sech  a  hurry  that  she 
did  n  't  have  time  to  send  you  word  and  get 
an  answer,  but  she 's  left  a  letter  here  for  you, 
for  she  trusted  to  your  comin'." 

Miss  Thorne  laid  her  hat  and  jacket  aside 
and  settled  herself  comfortably  in  a  rocker. 
The  maid  returned  presently  with  a  letter 
which  Miss  Hathaway  had  sealed  with  half  an 
ounce  of  red  wax,  presumably  in  a  laudable 
effort  to  remove  temptation  from  the  path  of 
the  red-cheeked,  wholesome,  farmer's  daughter 


Ube  Ifgbt 

fntbc 
THflttrtow 


2lav>en&er  anfc  <S>tt>  2/ace 


Xigbt 


intbe 

hips. 


who  stood  near  by  with  her  hands  on  her 


"Miss  Ruth  Thorne,"  the  letter  began, 
"  DEAR  NIECE: 

"I  am  writing  this  in  a  hurry,  as  we  are 
going  a  week  before  we  expected  to.  I  think 
you  will  find  everything  all  right.  Hepsey 
will  attend  to  the  house-keeping,  for  I  don  't 
suppose  you  know  much  about  it,  coming 
from  the  city.  She  's  a  good-hearted  girl,  but 
she  's  set  in  her  ways,  and  you  '11  have  to 
kinder  give  in  to  her,  but  any  time  when  you 
can  't,  just  speak  to  her  sharp  and  she  '11  do  as 
you  tell  her. 

"I  have  left  money  enough  for  the  expenses 
until  I  come  back,  in  a  little  box  on  the  top 
shelf  of  the  closet  in  the  front  room,  under  a 
pile  of  blankets  and  comfortables.  The  key 
that  unlocks  it  is  hung  on  a  nail  driven  into 
the  back  of  the  old  bureau  in  the  attic.  I  be 
lieve  Hepsey  is  honest  and  reliable,  but  I  don  't 
believe  in  tempting  folks. 

"When  I  get  anywhere  where  I  can,  I  will 
write  and  send  you  my  address,  and  then  you 
can  tell  me  how  things  are  going  at  home. 
The  catnip  is  hanging  from  the  rafters  in  the 


Ube  %\Qbt  in  tbe  Minnow 


attic,  in  case  you  should  want  some  tea,  and 
the  sassafras  is  in  the  little  drawer  in  the 
bureau  that's  got  the  key  hanging  behind  it. 

"If  there's  anything  else  you  should  want, 
I  reckon  Hepsey  will  know  where  to  find  it. 
Hoping  that  this  will  find  you  enjoying  the 
great  blessing  of  good  health,  I  remain, 
"Your  Affectionate  Aunt, 

"JANE  HATHAWAY. 

"P.  S.  You  have  to  keep  a  lamp  burning 
every  night  in  the  east  window  of  the  attic. 
Be  careful  that  nothing  catches  afire." 

The  maid  was  waiting,  in  fear  and  trem 
bling,  for  she  did  not  know  what  directions 
her  eccentric  mistress  might  have  left. 
"Everything  is  all  right,  Hepsey,"  said  Miss 
Thorne,  pleasantly,  "and  I  think  you  and  I 
will  get  along  nicely.  Did  Miss  Hathaway 
tell  you  what  room  I  was  to  have?" 

"No'm.  She  told  me  you  was  to  make 
yourself  at  home.  She  said  you  could  sleep 
where  you  pleased." 

"Very  well,  I  will  go  up  and  see  for  my 
self.  I  would  like  my  tea  at  six  o'clock." 

She  still  held  the  letter  in  her  hand,  greatly 
to  the  chagrin  of  Hepsey,  who  was  interested 


Ube  TU«bt 

in  tbe 
IKUntow 


3Lace 


Ube  Uigbt 

intbe 
TOUntiow 


in  everything  and  had  counted  upon  a  peep 
at  it.  It  was  not  Miss  Hathaway's  custom  to 
guard  her  letters  and  she  was  both  surprised 
and  disappointed. 

As  Ruth  climbed  the  narrow  stairway,  the 
quiet,  old-fashioned  house  brought  balm  to 
her  tired  soul.  It  was  exquisitely  clean,  redo 
lent  of  sweet  herbs,  and  in  its  atmosphere  was 
a  subtle,  Puritan  restraint. 

Have  not  our  houses,  mute  as  they  are,  their 
own  way  of  conveying  an  impression?  One 
may  go  into  a  house  which  has  been  empty 
for  a  long  time,  and  yet  feel,  instinctively, 
what  sort  of  people  were  last  sheltered  there. 
The  silent  walls  breathe  a  message  to  each 
visitor,  and  as  the  footfalls  echo  in  the  bare, 
cheerless  rooms,  one  discovers  where  Sorrow 
and  Trouble  had  their  abode,  and  where  the 
light,  careless  laughter  of  gay  Bohemia  lingered 
until  dawn.  At  night,  who  has  not  heard 
ghostly  steps  upon  the  stairs,  the  soft  closing 
of  unseen  doors,  the  tapping  on  a  window, 
and,  perchance,  a  sigh  or  the  sound  of  tears  ? 
Timid  souls  may  shudder  and  be  afraid,  but 
wiser  folk  smile,  with  reminiscent  tenderness, 
when  the  old  house  dreams. 

As  she  wandered  through  the  tiny,  spotless 


Olfabt  in  tbe  TPQUnOow 


rooms  on  the  second  floor  of  Miss  Hathaway's 
house,  Ruth  had  a  sense  of  security  and  peace 
which  she  had  never  known  before.  There 
were  two  front  rooms,  of  equal  size,  looking 
to  the  west,  and  she  chose  the  one  on  the 
left,  because  of  its  two  south  windows. 
There  was  but  one  other  room,  aside  from  the 
small  one  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  which,  as  she 
supposed,  was  Hepsey's. 

One  of  the  closets  was  empty,  but  on  a  shelf 
in  the  other  was  a  great  pile  of  bedding.  She 
dragged  a  chair  inside,  burrowed  under  the 
blankets,  and  found  a  small  wooden  box,  the 
contents  clinking  softly  as  she  drew  it  toward 
her. 

Holding  it  under  her  arm,  she  ascended  the 
narrow,  spiral  stairs  which  led  to  the  attic. 
At  one  end,  under  the  eaves,  stood  an  old 
mahogany  dresser.  The  casters  were  gone 
and  she  moved  it  with  difficulty,  but  the  slant 
ing  sunbeams  of  late  afternoon  revealed  the 
key,  which  hung,  as  her  aunt  had  written,  on 
a  nail  driven  into  the  back  of  it. 

She  knew,  without  trying,  that  it  would  fit 
the  box,  but  idly  turned  the  lock.  As  she 
opened  it,  a  bit  of  paper  fluttered  out,  and, 
picking  it  up,  she  read  in  her  aunt's  cramped, 


ttbe  Xfflbt 

in  tbe 
TKHinbow 


3La\>ent>er  anfc  ©ft  Xace 


ttbe  Uigbt 

in  tbe 
'SBlln&ow 


but  distinct  hand:  "  Hepsey  gets  a  dollar  and 
a  half  every  week.  Don't  you  pay  her  no 
more." 

As  the  house  was  set  some  distance  back, 
the  east  window  in  the  attic  was  the  only  one 
which  commanded  a  view  of  the  sea.  A  small 
table,  with  its  legs  sawed  off,  came  exactly  to 
the  sill,  and  here  stood  a  lamp,  which  was  a 
lamp  simply,  without  adornment,  and  held 
about  a  pint  of  oil. 

She  read  the  letter  again  and,  having  mas 
tered  its  contents,  tore  it  into  small  pieces, 
with  that  urban  caution  which  does  not  come 
amiss  in  the  rural  districts.  She  understood  that 
every  night  of  her  stay  she  was  to  light  this 
lamp  with  her  own  hands,  but  why  ?  The 
varnish  on  the  table,  which  had  once  been 
glaring,  was  scratched  with  innumerable  rings, 
where  the  rough  glass  had  left  its  mark.  Ruth 
wondered  if  she  were  face  to  face  with  a 
mystery. 

The  seaward  side  of  the  hill  was  a  rocky 
cliff,  and  between  the  vegetable  garden  at  the 
back  of  the  house  and  the  edge  of  the  preci 
pice  were  a  few  stumps,  well-nigh  covered 
with  moss.  From  her  vantage  point,  she 
could  see  the  woods  which  began  at  the  base 


in  tbe  Minnow 


of  the  hill,  on  the  north  side,  and  seemed  to 
end  at  the  sea.  On  the  south,  there  were  a 
few  trees  near  the  cliff,  but  others  near  them 
had  been  cut  down. 

Still  farther  south  and  below  the  hill  was 
a  grassy  plain,  through  which  a  glistening 
river  wound  slowly  to  the  ocean.  Willows 
grew  along  its  margin,  tipped  with  silvery 
green,  and  with  masses  of  purple  twilight 
tangled  in  the  bare  branches  below. 

Ruth  opened  the  window  and  drew  a  long 
breath.  Her  senses  had  been  dulled  by  the 
years  in  the  city,  but  childhood,  hidden  though 
not  forgotten,  came  back  as  if  by  magic,  with 
that  first  scent  of  sea  and  Spring. 

As  yet,  she  had  not  fully  realised  how  grate 
ful  she  was  for  this  little  time  away  from  her 
desk  and  typewriter.  The  managing  editor 
had  promised  her  the  same  position,  when 
ever  she  chose  to  go  back,  and  there  was  a 
little  hoard  in  the  savings-bank,  which  she 
would  not  need  to  touch,  owing  to  the  kind 
ness  of  this  eccentric  aunt,  whom  she  had 
never  seen. 

The  large  room  was  a  typical  attic,  with  its 
spinning-wheel  and  discarded  furniture — 
colonial  mahogany  that  would  make  many  a 


TTbc  Ifgbt 
in  tbe 


12 


Xavenfcer  anfc  ©R>  OLace 


IEbe  Ifgbt 
intbe 


city  matron  envious,  and  for  which  its  owner 
cared  little  or  nothing.  There  were  chests 
of  drawers,  two  or  three  battered  trunks,  a 
cedar  chest,  and  countless  boxes,  of  various 
sizes.  Bunches  of  sweet  herbs  hung  from  the 
rafters,  but  there  were  no  cobwebs,  because 
of  Miss  Hathaway's  perfect  housekeeping. 

Ruth  regretted  the  cobwebs  and  decided 
not  to  interfere,  should  the  tiny  spinners  take 
advantage  of  Aunt  Jane's  absence.  She  found 
an  old  chair  which  was  unsteady  on  its  rockers 
but  not  yet  depraved  enough  to  betray  one's 
confidence.  Moving  it  to  the  window,  she 
sat  down  and  looked  out  at  the  sea,  where 
the  slow  boom  of  the  surf  came  softly  from 
the  shore,  mingled  with  the  liquid  melody 
of  returning  breakers. 

The  first  grey  of  twilight  had  come  upon 
the  world  before  she  thought  of  going  down 
stairs.  A  match-safe  hung  upon  the  window 
casing,  newly  filled,  and,  mindful  of  her  trust, 
she  lighted  the  lamp  and  closed  the  window. 
Then  a  sudden  scream  from  the  floor  below 
startled  her. 

"Miss  Thorne!  Miss  Thorne!"  cried  a 
shrill  voice.  "Come  here!  Quick!" 

White  as  a  sheet,    Ruth  flew    downstairs 


Xiabt  In  tbe  Minnow 


and   met   Hepsey    in   the   hall.      "What   on 

earth  is  the  matter!  "  she  gasped. 

"Joe's  come  with  your  trunk,"  responded 

that     volcanic     young     woman,      amiably ; 

"where 'd  you  want  it  put?" 

"In  the  south  front  room,"  she  answered, 

still  frightened,  but  glad  nothing  more  serious 

had   happened.     "You  must  n't  scream   like 

that." 

"Supper's  ready,"  resumed  Hepsey,  non 
chalantly,  and  Ruth  followed  her  down  to  the 

little  dining-room. 

As  she  ate,  she  plied  the  maid  with  ques 
tions.    "Does  Miss  Hathaway  light  that  lamp 

in  the  attic  every  night  ?  " 

"Yes'm.     She  cleans  it  and  fills  it  herself, 

and  she  puts  it  out  every  morning.    She  don't 

never  let  me  touch  it." 

"Why  does  she  keep  it  there?" 

"  D'  know.     She  d'  know,  neither." 

"  Why,  Hepsey,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Why 

does  she  do  it  if  she  does  n't  know  why  she 

does  it  ?  " 

"  D'  know.   'Cause  she  wants  to,  I  reckon." 
"She  's  been  gone  a  week,  has  n  't  she  ? " 
"No'm.     Only  six  days.     It'll  be  a  week 

to-morrer." 


Ube  Xigbt 
in  tbe 


anfc 


3Lace 


fntbe 
TKHin&ow 


Hepsey's  remarks  were  short  and  jerky,  as 
a  rule,  and  had  a  certain  explosive  force. 

"Has  n't  the  lamp  been  lighted  since  she 
went  away  ?  " 

"  Yes  'm.  I  was  to  do  it  till  you  come,  and 
after  you  got  here  I  was  to  ask  you  every 
night  if  you  'd  forgot  it." 

Ruth  smiled  because  Aunt  Jane's  old-fash 
ioned  exactness  lingered  in  her  wake.  "Now 
see  here,  Hepsey,"  she  began  kindly,  "I 
don  't  know  and  you  don  't  know,  but  I  'd 
like  to  have  you  tell  me  what  you  think 
about  it." 

"Id'  know,  as  you  say,  mum,  but  I  think 

"  here  she  lowered  her  voice —  "  I  think  it 
has  something  to  do  with  Miss  Ainslie." 

"  Who  is  Miss  Ainslie  ?  " 

"She  's  a  peculiar  woman,  Miss  Ainslie  is," 
the  girl  explained,  smoothing  her  apron,  "and 
she  lives  down  the  road  a  piece,  in  the  valley 
as  you  may  say.  She  don  't  never  go  no- 
wheres,  Miss  Ainslie  don  't,  but  folks  goes  to 
see  her.  She  's  got  a  funny  house — I  've  been 
inside  of  it  sometimes  when  I  've  been  down 
on  errands  for  Miss  Hathaway.  She  ain't  got 
no  figgered  wall  paper,  nor  no  lace  curtains, 
and  she  ain't  got  no  rag  carpets  neither.  Her 


Ube  XiQbt  in  tbe  Window  I5 

floors   is    all  kinder   funny,    and    she 's    got 

J  in  tbe 

heathen  things  spread  down  onto  'em.  Her 
house  is  full  of  heathen  things,  and  sometimes 
she  wears  'em." 

"Wears  what,  Hepsey  ?  The  'heathen 
things '  in  the  house  ?  " 

"No'm.  Other  heathen  things  she's  got 
put  away  somewheres.  She  's  got  money,  I 
guess,  but  she  's  got  furniture  in  her  parlour 
that 's  just  like  what  Miss  Hathaway 's  got  set 
away  in  the  attic.  We  would  n't  use  them 
kind  of  things,  nohow,"  she  added  compla 
cently. 

"Does  she  live  all  alone?" 

"Yes'm.  Joe,  he  does  her  errands  and 
other  folks  stops  in  sometimes,  but  Miss 
Ainslie  ain't  left  her  front  yard  for  I  d'  know 
how  long.  Some  says  she 's  cracked,  but  she 's 
the  best  housekeeper  round  here,  and  if  she 
hears  of  anybody  that 's  sick  or  in  trouble,  she 
allers  sends  'em  things.  She  ain't  never  been 
up  here,  but  Miss  Hathaway,  she  goes  down 
there  sometimes,  and  she  'n  Miss  Ainslie 
swaps  cookin'  quite  regler.  I  have  to  go 
down  there  with  a  plate  of  somethin'  Miss 
Hathaway 's  made,  and  Miss  Ainslie  allers 
says :  '  Wait  just  a  moment,  please,  Hepsey,  I 


i6 


OLace 


Ube  Xfgbt 
intbe 


would  like  to  send  Miss  Hathaway  a  jar  of 
my  preserves.' ' 

She  relapsed  unconsciously  into  imitation  of 
Miss  Ainslie's  speech.  In  the  few  words,  sof 
tened,  and  betraying  a  quaint  stateliness,  Ruth 
caught  a  glimpse  of  an  old-fashioned  gentle 
woman,  reserved  and  yet  gracious. 

She  folded  her  napkin,  saying:  "You  make 
the  best  biscuits  I  ever  tasted,  Hepsey."  The 
girl  smiled,  but  made  no  reply. 

"What  makes  you  think  Miss  Ainslie  has 
anything  to  do  with  the  light  ?  "  she  inquired 
after  a  little. 

"  'Cause  there  was  n't  no  light  in  that  win 
der  when  I  first  come — leastways,  not  as  I 
know  of — and  after  I  'd  been  here  a  week  or 
so,  Miss  Hathaway,  she  come  back  from  there 
one  day  looking  kinder  strange.  She  did  n't 
say  much ;  but  the  next  mornin'  she  goes  down 
to  town  and  buys  that  lamp,  and  she  saws  off 
them  table  legs  herself.  Every  night  since, 
that  light 's  been  a-goin',  and  she  puts  it  out 
herself  every  mornin'  before  she  comes  down 
stairs." 

"Perhaps  she  and  Miss  Ainslie  had  been 
talking  of  shipwreck,  and  she  thought  she 
would  have  a  little  lighthouse  of  her  own," 


Ube  %f0bt  in  tbe  TOUnDow 


Miss  Thorne  suggested,  when  the  silence  be 
came  oppressive. 

"P'raps  so,"  rejoined  Hepsey.  She  had 
become  stolid  again. 

Ruth  pushed  her  chair  back  and  stood  at 
the  dining-room  window  a  moment,  looking 
out  into  the  yard.  The  valley  was  in  shadow, 
but  the  last  light  still  lingered  on  the  hill. 
"What 's  that,  Hepsey  ?"  she  asked. 

"What's  what?" 

"That — where  the  evergreen  is  coming  up 
out  of  the  ground,  in  the  shape  of  a  square." 

"That's  the  cat's  grave,  mum.  She  died 
jest  afore  Miss  Hathaway  went  away,  and  she 
planted  the  evergreen." 

"I  thought  something  was  lacking,"  said 
Ruth,  half  to  herself. 

"Do  you  want  a  kitten,  Miss  Thorne?" 
inquired  Hepsey,  eagerly.  "I  reckon  I  can  get 
you  one — Maltese  or  white,  just  as  you  like." 

"No,  thank  you,  Hepsey;  I  don't  believe 
I  '11  import  any  pets." 

"Jest  as  you  say,  mum.  It's  sorter  lone 
some,  though,  with  no  cat;  and  Miss  Hatha 
way  said  she  did  n't  want  no  more." 

Speculating  upon  the  departed  cat's  superi 
or  charms,  that  made  substitution  seem  like 


i8 


%a\>enfcer  anfc 


%ace 


sacrilege  to  Miss  Hathaway,  Ruth  sat  down  for 
a  time  in  the  old-fashioned  parlour,  where  the 
shabby  haircloth  furniture  was  ornamented 
with  "tidies"  to  the  last  degree.  There  was 
a  marble-topped  centre  table  in  the  room,  and 
a  basket  of  wax  flowers  under  a  glass  case, 
Mrs.  Hemans's  poems,  another  book,  called 
The  Lady's  Garland ',  and  the  family  Bible 
were  carefully  arranged  upon  it. 

A  hair  wreath,  also  sheltered  by  glass,  hung 
on  the  wall  near  another  collection  of  wax 
flowers  suitably  framed.  There  were  various 
portraits  of  people  whom  Miss  Thorne  did 
not  know,  though  she  was  a  near  relative  of 
their  owner,  and  two  tall,  white  china  vases, 
decorated  with  gilt,  flanked  the  mantel-shelf. 
The  carpet,  which  was  once  of  the  speaking 
variety,  had  faded  to  the  listening  point. 
Coarse  lace  curtains  hung  from  brass  rings  on 
wooden  poles,  and  red  cotton  lambrequins 
were  festooned  at  the  top. 

Hepsey  came  in  to  light  the  lamp  that  hung 
by  chains  over  the  table,  but  Miss  Thorne 
rose,  saying:  "You  need  n't  mind,  Hepsey,  as 
I  am  going  upstairs." 

"Want  me  to  help  you  unpack  ?  "  she  asked, 
doubtless  wishing  for  a  view  of  "  city  clothes." 


Ube  Xiabt  in  tbe  <GCUn&ow 


"No,  thank  you."  trbe 

"I  put  a  pitcher  of  water  in  your  room, 
Miss  Thorne.  Is  there  anything  else  you 
would  like  ?" 

"Nothing  more,  thank  you." 

She  still  lingered,  irresolute,  shifting  from 
one  foot  to  the  other.  "Miss  Thorne — "  she 
began  hesitatingly. 

"Yes?" 

"Be  you — be  you  a  lady  detective  ?" 

Ruth's  clear  laughter  rang  out  on  the  even 
ing  air.  "Why,  no,  you  foolish  girl;  I'm  a 
newspaper  woman,  and  I  've  earned  a  rest  — 
that  's  all.  You  must  n't  read  books  with 
yellow  covers." 

Hepsey  withdrew,  muttering  vague  apolo 
gies,  and  Ruth  found  her  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs  when  she  went  up  to  her  room.  ' '  How 
long  have  you  been  with  Miss  Hathaway?" 
she  asked. 

"Five  years  come  next  June." 

"Good  night,  Hepsey." 

"Good  night,  Miss  Thorne." 

From  sheer  force  of  habit,  Ruth  locked  her 
door.  Her  trunk  was  not  a  large  one,  and  it 
did  not  take  her  long  to  put  her  simple  ward 
robe  into  the  capacious  closet  and  the  dresser 


%at>enfcer  anfc 


%ace 


Ubc  liflbt 

intbc 
TUJUnfcow 


drawers.  As  she  moved  the  empty  trunk 
into  the  closet,  she  remembered  the  box  of 
money  that  she  had  left  in  the  attic,  and  went 
up  to  get  it.  When  she  returned  she  heard 
Hepsey's  door  close  softly. 

"Silly  child,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I 
might  just  as  well  ask  her  if  she  is  n't  a  'lady 
detective.'  They  '11  laugh  about  that  in  the 
office  when  I  go  back." 

She  sat  down,  rocking  contentedly,  for  it 
was  April,  and  she  would  not  have  to  go  back 
until  Aunt  Jane  came  home,  probably  about 
the  first  of  October.  She  checked  off  the  free, 
health-giving  months  on  her  tired  fingers,  that 
would  know  the  blue  pencil  and  the  type 
writer  no  more  until  Autumn,  when  she  would 
be  strong  again  and  the  quivering  nerves  quite 
steady. 

She  blessed  the  legacy  which  had  fallen  into 
Jane  Hathaway's  lap  and  led  her,  at  fifty-five, 
to  join  a  "  personally  conducted  "  party  to  the 
Old  World.  Ruth  had  always  had  a  dim 
yearning  for  foreign  travel,  but  just  now  she 
felt  no  latent  injustice,  such  as  had  often  ran 
kled  in  her  soul  when  her  friends  went  and 
she  remained  at  home. 

Thinking  she  heard  Hepsey  in  the  hall,  and 


OLiabt  in  tbe  Min&ow 


not  caring  to  arouse  further  suspicion,  she  put 

in  tbe 

out  her  light  and  sat  by  the  window,  with  the 
shutters  wide  open. 

Far  down  the  hill,  where  the  road  became 
level  again,  and  on  the  left  as  she  looked  to 
ward  the  village,  was  the  white  house,  sur 
rounded  by  a  garden  and  a  hedge,  which  she 
supposed  was  Miss  Ainslie's.  A  timid  chirp 
came  from  the  grass,  and  the  faint,  sweet 
smell  of  growing  things  floated  in  through  the 
open  window  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

A  train  from  the  city  sounded  a  warning 
whistle  as  it  approached  the  station,  and  then 
a  light  shone  on  the  grass  in  front  of  Miss 
Ainslie's  house.  It  was  a  little  gleam,  evi 
dently  from  a  candle. 

"So  she 's  keeping  a  lighthouse,  too, "  thought 
Ruth.  The  train  pulled  out  of  the  station  and 
half  an  hour  afterward  the  light  disappeared. 

She  meditated  upon  the  general  subject  of 
illumination  while  she  got  ready  for  bed,  but 
as  soon  as  her  head  touched  the  pillow  she 
lost  consciousness  and  knew  no  more  until 
the  morning  light  crept  into  her  room. 


II 
Cbe  attic 

»ttk  nnHE  maid  sat  in  the  kitchen,  wondering 
1  why  Miss  Thorne  did  not  come  down. 
It  was  almost  seven  o'clock,  and  Miss  Hath- 
away's  breakfast  hour  was  half  past  six. 
Hepsey  did  not  frame  the  thought,  but  she 
had  a  vague  impression  that  the  guest  was 
lazy. 

Yet  she  was  grateful  for  the  new  interest 
which  had  come  into  her  monotonous  life. 
Affairs  moved  like  clock  work  at  Miss  Hath- 
away's  —  breakfast  at  half  past  six,  dinner  at 
one,  and  supper  at  half  past  five.  Each  day 
was  also  set  apart  by  its  regular  duties,  from 
the  washing  on  Monday  to  the  baking  on 
Saturday. 

Now  it  was  possible  that  there  might  be  a 
change.  Miss  Thorne  seemed  fully  capable 
of  setting  the  house  topsy-turvy  —  and  Miss 
Hathaway 's  last  injunction  had  been:  "Now, 


Ube  Httic 

Hepsey,  you  mind  Miss  Thorne.  If  I  hear  that 
you  don't,  you'll  lose  your  place." 

The  young  woman  who  slumbered  peace 
fully  upstairs,  while  the  rest  of  the  world  was 
awake,  had,  from  the  beginning,  aroused 
admiration  in  Hepsey's  breast.  It  was  a  re 
luctant,  rebellious  feeling,  mingled  with  an 
indefinite  fear,  but  it  was  admiration  none  the 
less. 

During  the  greater  part  of  a  wondering, 
wakeful  night,  the  excited  Hepsey  had  seen 
Miss  Thorne  as  plainly  as  when  she  first 
entered  the  house.  The  tall,  straight,  grace 
ful  figure  was  familiar  by  this  time,  and  the 
subdued  silken  rustle  of  her  skirts  was  a 
wonted  sound.  Ruth's  face,  naturally  mobile, 
had  been  schooled  into  a  certain  reserve,  but 
her  deep,  dark  eyes  were  eloquent,  and  always 
would  be.  Hepsey  wondered  at  the  opaque 
whiteness  of  her  skin  and  the  baffling  arrange 
ment  of  her  hair.  The  young  women  of  the 
village  had  rosy  cheeks,  but  Miss  Thome's 
face  was  colourless,  except  for  her  lips. 

It  was  very  strange,  Hepsey  thought,  for 
Miss  Hathaway  to  sail  before  her  niece  came, 
if,  indeed,  Miss  Thorne  was  her  niece.  There 
was  a  mystery  in  the  house  on  the  hilltop, 


Ubs  Kttic 


anfc  ©lt>  Xace 


Htttc  which  she  had  tried  in  vain  to  fathom.  Foreign 
letters  came  frequently,  no  two  of  them  from 
the  same  person,  and  the  lamp  in  the  attic 
window  had  burned  steadily  every  night  for 
five  years.  Otherwise,  everything  was  ex 
plainable  and  sane. 

Still,  Miss  Thorne  did  not  seem  even  re 
motely  related  to  her  aunt,  and  Hepsey  had 
her  doubts.  Moreover,  the  guest  had  an  un 
canny  gift  which  amounted  to  second  sight. 
How  did  she  know  that  all  of  Hepsey's  books 
had  yellow  covers  ?  Miss  Hathaway  could  not 
have  told  her  in  the  letter,  for  the  mistress  was 
not  aware  of  her  maid's  literary  tendencies. 

It  was  half  past  seven,  but  no  sound  came 
from  upstairs.  She  replenished  the  fire  and 
resumed  meditation.  Whatever  Miss  Thorne 
might  prove  to  be,  she  was  decidedly  interest 
ing.  It  was  pleasant  to  watch  her,  to  feel  the 
subtle  refinement  of  all  her  belongings,  and  to 
wonder  what  was  going  to  happen  next. 
Perhaps  Miss  Thorne  would  take  her  back  to 
the  city,  as  her  maid,  when  Miss  Hathaway 
came  home,  for,  in  the  books,  such  things 
frequently  happened.  Would  she  go  ?  Hep 
sey  was  trying  to  decide,  when  there  was  a 
light,  rapid  step  on  the  stairs,  a  moment's 


Httic 


hesitation  in  the  hall,  and  Miss  Thome  came 
into  the  dining-room. 

"Good  morning,  Hepsey,"  she  said,  cheer 
ily;  "am  I  late?" 

"  Yes  'm.  It's  goin'  on  eight,  and  Miss 
Hathaway  allers  has  breakfast  at  half  past 
six." 

"How  ghastly,"  Ruth  thought.  "I  should 
have  told  you,"  she  said,  "I  will  have  mine 
at  eight." 

"Yes  'm,"  replied  Hepsey,  apparently  un 
moved.  "What  time  do  you  want  dinner  ?" 

"At  six  o'clock  —  luncheon  at  half  past 
one." 

Hepsey  was  puzzled,  but  in  a  few  moments 
she  understood  that  dinner  was  to  be  served 
at  night  and  supper  at  midday.  Breakfast 
had  already  been  moved  forward  an  hour  and 
a  half,  and  stranger  things  might  happen  at 
any  minute. 

Ruth  had  several  other  reforms  in  mind, 
but  deemed  it  best  to  wait.  After  breakfast, 
she  remembered  the  lamp  in  the  window  and 
went  up  to  put  it  out. 

It  was  still  burning  when  she  reached  it, 
though  the  oil  was  almost  gone,  and,  placing 
it  by  the  stairway,  that  she  might  not  forget 


Ube  Bttfc 


26  %a\>en&er  and  ©to  3Lacc 

Htttc  to  have  it  filled,  she  determined  to  explore 
the  attic  to  her  heart's  content. 

The  sunlight  streamed  through  the  east 
window  and  searched  the  farthest  corners  of 
the  room.  The  floor  was  bare  and  worn,  but 
carefully  swept,  and  the  things  that  were 
stored  there  were  huddled  together  far  back 
under  the  eaves,  as  if  to  make  room  for 
others. 

It  was  not  idle  curiosity,  but  delicate  senti 
ment,  that  made  Ruth  eager  to  open  the 
trunks  and  dresser  drawers,  and  to  turn  over 
the  contents  of  the  boxes  that  were  piled 
together  and  covered  with  dust.  The  inter 
est  of  the  lower  part  of  the  house  paled  in 
comparison  with  the  first  real  attic  she  had 
ever  been  in. 

After  all,  why  not  ?  Miss  Hathaway  was 
her  aunt, —  her  mother's  only  sister, —  and  the 
house  was  in  her  care.  There  was  no  earthly 
reason  why  she  should  not  amuse  herself  in 
her  own  way.  Ruth's  instincts  were  against 
it,  but  Reason  triumphed. 

The  bunches  of  dried  herbs,  hanging  from 
the  rafters  and  swaying  back  and  forth  in 
ghostly  fashion,  gave  out  a  wholesome  fra 
grance,  and  when  she  opened  trunks  whose 


Btttc 


27 


lids  creaked  on  their  rusty  hinges,  dried  rose 
mary,  lavender,  and  sweet  clover  filled  the 
room  with  that  long-stored  sweetness  which 
is  the  gracious  handmaiden  of  Memory. 

Miss  Hathaway  was  a  thrifty  soul,  but  she 
never  stored  discarded  clothing  that  might  be 
of  use  to  any  one,  and  so  Ruth  found  no 
moth-eaten  garments  of  bygone  pattern,  but 
only  things  which  seemed  to  be  kept  for  the 
sake  of  their  tender  associations. 

There  were  letters,  on  whose  yellowed 
pages  the  words  had  long  since  faded,  a  dog 
eared  primer,  and  several  well  worn  school- 
books,  each  having  on  its  fly-leaf:  "Jane 
Hathaway,  Her  Book  "  ;  scraps  of  lace,  bro 
cade  and  rustling  taffeta,  quilt  patterns,  needle- 
books,  and  all  of  the  eloquent  treasures  that 
a  well  stored  attic  can  yield. 

As  she  replaced  them,  singing  softly  to  her 
self,  a  folded  newspaper  slipped  to  the  floor. 
It  was  yellow  and  worn,  like  the  letters,  and 
she  unfolded  it  carefully.  It  was  over  thirty 
years  old,  and  around  a  paragraph  on  the 
last  page  a  faint  line  still  lingered.  It  was  an 
announcement  of  the  marriage  of  Charles  G. 
Winfield,  captain  of  the  schooner  Mary,  to 
Miss  Abigail  Weatherby. 


Ube  Bttic 


28 


Xace 


Ubc  mttic 


"Abigail  Weatherby,"  she  said  aloud.  The 
name  had  a  sweet,  old-fashioned  sound. 
"They  must  have  been  Aunt  Jane's  friends." 
She  closed  the  trunk  and  pushed  it  back  to  its 
place,  under  the  eaves. 

In  a  distant  corner  was  the  old  cedar  chest, 
heavily  carved.  She  pulled  it  out  into  the 
light,  her  cheeks  glowing  with  quiet  happi 
ness,  and  sat  down  on  the  floor  beside  it.  It 
was  evidently  Miss  Hathaway's  treasure  box, 
put  away  in  the  attic  when  spinsterhood  was 
confirmed  by  the  fleeting  years. 

On  top,  folded  carefully  in  a  sheet,  was  a 
gown  of  white  brocade,  short-waisted  and 
quaint,  trimmed  with  pearl  passementerie. 
The  neck  was  square,  cut  modestly  low,  and 
filled  in  with  lace  of  a  delicate,  frosty  pattern 
—  Point  d'Alencon.  Underneath  the  gown 
lay  piles  of  lingerie,  all  of  the  finest  linen, 
daintily  made  by  hand.  Some  of  it  was 
trimmed  with  real  lace,  some  with  crocheted 
edging,  and  the  rest  with  hemstitched  ruffles 
and  feather-stitching. 

There  was  another  gown,  much  worn,  of 
soft  blue  cashmere,  some  sea-shells,  a  necklace 
of  uncut  turquoises,  the  colour  changed  to 
green,  a  prayer-book,  a  little  hymnal,  and  a 


Httic 


29 


bundle  of  letters,  tied  with  a  faded  blue  ribbon, 
which  she  did  not  touch.  There  was  but  one 
picture  —  an  ambrotype,  in  an  ornate  case,  of 
a  handsome  young  man,  with  that  dashing, 
dare-devil  look  in  his  eyes  which  has  ever 
been  attractive  to  women. 

Ruth  smiled  as  she  put  the  treasures  away, 
thinking  that,  had  Fate  thrown  the  dice 
another  way,  the  young  man  might  have  been 
her  esteemed  and  respected  uncle.  Then,  all 
at  once,  it  came  to  her  that  she  had  unthink 
ingly  stumbled  upon  her  aunt's  romance. 

She  was  not  a  woman  to  pry  into  others' 
secrets,  and  felt  guilty  as  she  fled  from  the 
attic,  taking  the  lamp  with  her.  Afterward, 
as  she  sat  on  the  narrow  piazza,  basking  in 
the  warm  Spring  sunshine,  she  pieced  out  the 
love  affair  of  Jane  Hathaway's  early  girlhood 
after  her  own  fashion. 

She  could  see  it  all  plainly.  Aunt  Jane  had 
expected  to  be  married  to  the  dashing  young 
man  and  had  had  her  trousseau  in  readiness, 
when  something  happened.  The  folded  paper 
would  indicate  that  he  was  Charles  Winfield, 
who  had  married  some  one  else,  but  whether 
Aunt  Jane  had  broken  her  engagement,  or  the 
possible  Uncle  Charles  had  simply  taken  a  mate 


Htttc 


30  %a\>ent>er  anfc  ©U>  Xace 

ntttc  without  any  such  formality,  was  a  subject  of 
conjecture. 

Still,  if  the  recreant  lover  had  married 
another,  would  Aunt  Jane  have  kept  her 
treasure  chest  and  her  wedding  gown  ?  Ruth 
knew  that  she  herself  would  not,  but  she 
understood  that  aunts  were  in  a  class  by  them 
selves.  It  was  possible  that  Charles  Winfield 
was  an  earlier  lover,  and  she  had  kept  the 
paper  without  any  special  motive,  or,  per 
haps,  for  "auld  lang  syne." 

Probably  the  letters  would  have  disclosed 
the  mystery,  and  the  newspaper  instinct,  on 
the  trail  of  a  "story,"  was  struggling  with  her 
sense  of  honour,  but  not  for  the  world,  now 
that  she  knew,  would  Ruth  have  read  the 
yellowed  pages,  which  doubtless  held  faded 
roses  pressed  between  them. 

The  strings  of  sea-shells,  and  the  larger  ones, 
which  could  have  come  only  from  foreign 
shores,  together  with  the  light  in  the  window, 
gave  her  a  sudden  clew.  Aunt  Jane  was 
waiting  for  her  lover  and  the  lamp  was  a  sig 
nal.  If  his  name  was  Charles  Winfield,  the 
other  woman  was  dead,  and  if  not,  the  mar 
riage  notice  was  that  of  a  friend  or  an  earlier 
lover. 


Ube  Httic 

The  explanation  was  reasonable,  clear,  and 
concise  —  what  woman  could  ask  for  more  ? 
Yet  there  was  something  beyond  it  which 
was  out  of  Miss  Thome's  grasp — a  tantalis 
ing  something,  which  would  not  be  allayed. 
Then  she  reflected  that  the  Summer  was  be 
fore  her,  and,  in  reality,  now  that  she  was  off 
the  paper,  she  had  no  business  with  other 
people's  affairs. 

The  sun  was  hidden  by  gathering  clouds 
and  the  air  was  damp  before  Ruth  missed  the 
bright  warmth  on  the  piazza,  and  began  to 
walk  back  and  forth  by  way  of  keeping  warm. 
A  gravelled  path  led  to  the  gate  and  on  either 
side  was  a  row  of  lilac  bushes,  the  bare  stalks 
tipped  with  green.  A  white  picket  fence 
surrounded  the  yard,  except  at  the  back, 
where  the  edge  of  the  precipice  made  it  use 
less.  The  place  was  small  and  well  kept,  but 
there  were  no  flower  beds  except  at  the  front 
of  the  house,  and  there  were  only  two  or 
three  trees. 

She  walked  around  the  vegetable  garden  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  where  a  portion  of  her 
Summer  sustenance  was  planted,  and  discov 
ered  an  unused  gate  at  the  side,  which  swung 
back  and  forth,  idly,  without  latching.  She 


31 


Ubc  attic 


32  XavenOer  an&  ©lt>  %ace 

attic  was  looking  over  the  fence  and  down  the 
steep  hillside,  when  a  sharp  voice  at  her  el 
bow  made  her  jump. 

"  Sech  as  wants  dinner  can  come  in  and  get 
it,"  announced  Hepsey,  sourly.  "I  've  yelled 
and  yelled  till  I  've  most  bust  my  throat  and  I 
ain't  a-goin'  to  yell  no  more." 

She  returned  to  the  house,  a  picture  of  of 
fended  dignity,  but  carefully  left  the  door  ajar 
for  Ruth,  who  discovered,  upon  this  rude 
awakening  from  her  reverie,  that  she  was 
very  hungry. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  chill  fog  made  it  im 
possible  to  go  out,  for  the  wind  had  risen 
from  the  sea  and  driven  the  salt  mist  inland. 
Miss  Hathaway's  library  was  meagre  and  unin 
teresting,  Hepsey  was  busy  in  the  kitchen,  and 
Ruth  was  frankly  bored.  Reduced  at  last  to 
the  desperate  strait  of  putting  all  her  belong 
ings  in  irreproachable  order,  she  found  her 
self,  at  four  o'clock,  without  occupation.  The 
temptation  in  the  attic  wrestled  strongly  with 
her,  but  she  would  not  go. 

It  seemed  an  age  until  six  o'clock.  "  This 
won't  do,"  she  said  to  herself;  "I  '11  have  to 
learn  how  to  sew,  or  crochet,  or  make  tatting. 
At  last,  I  am  to  be  domesticated.  I  used  to 


ZTbe  Httic 

wonder  how  women  had  time  for  the  endless 
fancy  work,  but  I  see,  now." 

She  was  accustomed  to  self  analysis  and 
introspection,  and  began  to  consider  what 
she  could  get  out  of  the  next  six  months  in 
the  way  of  gain.  Physical  strength,  certainly, 
but  what  else  ?  The  prospect  was  gloomy 
just  then. 

"It's  goin'  to  rain,  Miss  Thorne,"  said 
Hepsey,  at  the  door.  "Is  all  the  winders 
shut?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  she  answered. 

"  Supper  's  ready  any  time  you  want  it." 

"  Very  well,  I  will  come  now." 

When  she  sat  down  in  the  parlour,  after 
doing  scant  justice  to  Hepsey's  cooking,  it  was 
with  a  grim  resignation,  of  the  Puritan  sort 
which,  supposedly,  went  with  the  house. 
There  was  but  one  place  in  all  the  world  where 
she  would  like  to  be,  and  she  was  afraid  to 
trust  herself  in  the  attic. 

By  an  elaborate  mental  process,  she  con 
vinced  herself  that  the  cedar  chest  and  the  old 
trunks  did  not  concern  her  in  the  least,  and 
tried  to  develop  a  feminine  fear  of  mice,  which 
was  not  natural  to  her.  She  had  just  placed 
herself  loftily  above  all  mundane  things,  when 


33 


Vbe  attic 


34 

Httic  Hepsey  marched  into  the  room,  and  placed 
the  attic  lamp,  newly  filled,  upon  the  marble 
table. 

Here  was  a  manifest  duty  confronting  a  very 
superior  person  and,  as  she  went  upstairs,  she 
determined  to  come  back  immediately,  but 
when  she  had  put  the  light  in  the  seaward 
window,  she  lingered,  under  the  spell  of  the 
room. 

The  rain  beat  steadily  upon  the  roof  and 
dripped  from  the  eaves.  The  light  made  dis 
torted  shadows  upon  the  wall  and  floor,  while 
the  bunches  of  herbs,  hanging  from  the  rafters, 
swung  lightly  back  and  forth  when  the  wind 
rattled  the  windows  and  shook  the  old  house. 

The  room  seemed  peopled  by  the  previous 
generation,  that  had  slept  in  the  massive  ma 
hogany  bed,  rocked  in  the  chairs,  with  sew 
ing  or  gossip,  and  stood  before  the  old  dresser 
on  tiptoe,  peering  eagerly  into  the  mirror 
which  probably  had  hung  above  it.  It  was  as 
if  Memory  sat  at  the  spinning-wheel,  idly 
twisting  the  thread,  and  bringing  visions  of 
the  years  gone  by. 

A  cracked  mirror  hung  against  the  wall  and 
Ruth  saw  her  reflection  dimly,  as  if  she,  too, 
belonged  to  the  ghosts  of  the  attic.  She  was 


Ube  Bttic 


35 


not  vain,  but  she  was  satisfied  with  her  eyes 
and  hair,  her  white  skin,  impervious  to  tan  or 
burn,  and  the  shape  of  her  mouth.  The  saucy 
little  upward  tilt  at  the  end  of  her  nose  was 
a  great  cross  to  her,  however,  because  it  was 
at  variance  with  the  dignified  bearing  which 
she  chose  to  maintain.  As  she  looked,  she 
wondered,  vaguely,  if  she,  like  Aunt  Jane, 
would  grow  to  a  loveless  old  age.  It  seemed 
probable,  for,  at  twenty-five,  The  Prince  had 
not  appeared.  She  had  her  work  and  was 
happy;  yet  unceasingly,  behind  those  dark 
eyes,  Ruth's  soul  kept  maidenly  watch  for  its 
mate. 

When  she  turned  to  go  downstairs,  a  folded 
newspaper  on  the  floor  attracted  her  attention. 
It  was  near  one  of  the  trunks  which  she  had 
opened  and  must  have  fallen  out.  She  picked 
it  up,  to  replace  it,  but  it  proved  to  be  another 
paper  dated  a  year  later  than  the  first  one. 
There  was  no  marked  paragraph,  but  she  soon 
discovered  the  death  notice  of  "Abigail  Win- 
field,  nee  Weatherby,  aged  twenty-two." 

She  put  it  into  the  trunk  out  of  which  she 
knew  it  must  have  fallen,  and  stood  there, 
thinking.  Those  faded  letters,  hidden  under 
Aunt  Jane's  wedding  gown,  were  tempting 


Gbe  Bttic 


anfc  ©It)  Xace 


nttfc  her  with  their  mute  secret  as  never  before. 
She  hesitated,  took  three  steps  toward  the 
cedar  chest,  then  fled  ingloriously  from  the 
field. 

Whoever  Charles  Winfield  was,  he  was  free 
to  love  and  marry  again.  Perhaps  there  had 
been  an  estrangement  and  it  was  he  for  whom 
Aunt  Jane  was  waiting,  since  sometimes,  out 
of  bitterness,  the  years  distil  forgiveness.  She 
wondered  at  the  nature  which  was  tender 
enough  to  keep  the  wedding  gown  and  the 
pathetic  little  treasures,  brave  enough  to  keep 
the  paper,  with  its  evidence  of  falseness,  and 
great  enough  to  forgive. 

Yet,  what  right  had  she  to  suppose  Aunt 
Jane  was  waiting  ?  Had  she  gone  abroad  to 
seek  him  and  win  his  recreant  heart  again  ? 
Or  was  Abigail  Weatherby  her  girlhood  friend, 
who  had  married  unhappily,  and  then  died  ? 

Somewhere  in  Aunt  Jane's  fifty-five  years 
there  was  a  romance,  but,  after  all,  it  was  not 
her  niece's  business.  "I'm  an  imaginative 
goose,"  Ruth  said  to  herself.  "  I  'm  asked  to 
keep  a  light  in  the  window,  presumably  as 
an  incipient  lighthouse,  and  I  've  found  some 
old  clothes  and  two  old  papers  in  the  attic— 
that 's  all — and  I  've  constructed  a  tragedy." 


TTbe  Httic 


37 


She  resolutely  put  the  whole  matter  aside, 
as  she  sat  in  her  room,  rocking  pensively. 
Her  own  lamp  had  not  been  filled  and  was 
burning  dimly,  so  she  put  it  out  and  sat  in 
the  darkness,  listening  to  the  rain. 

She  had  not  closed  the  shutters  and  did  not 
care  to  lean  out  in  the  storm,  and  so  it  was 
that,  when  the  whistle  of  the  ten  o'clock 
train  sounded  hoarsely,  she  saw  the  little 
glimmer  of  light  from  Miss  Ainslie's  window, 
making  a  faint  circle  in  the  darkness.  Half 
an  hour  -later,  as  before,  it  was  taken  away. 

The  scent  of  lavender  and  sweet  clover 
clung  to  Miss  Hathaway's  linen,  and,  insensi 
bly  soothed,  Ruth  went  to  sleep.  After  hours 
of  dreamless  slumber,  she  thought  she  heard 
a  voice  calling  her  and  telling  her  not  to  for 
get  the  light.  It  was  so  real  that  she  started 
to  her  feet,  half  expecting  to  find  some  one 
standing  beside  her. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  and  two  or  three  stars, 
like  timid  children,  were  peeping  at  the 
world  from  behind  the  threatening  cloud. 
It  was  that  mystical  moment  which  no  one 
may  place — the  turning  of  night  to  day.  Far 
down  the  hill,  ghostly,  but  not  forbidding, 
was  Miss  Ainslie's  house,  the  garden  around 


TTbe  Httic 


Xavenfcer  anfc  ©15  Xace 


mute  it  lying  whitely  beneath  the  dews  of  dawn, 
and  up  in  the  attic  window  the  light  still 
shone,  like  unfounded  hope  in  a  woman's 
soul,  harking  across  distant  seas  of  mis 
understanding  and  gloom,  with  its  pitiful 
"All  Hail!" 


39 


R 


III 

Binslie 


UTH  began  to  feel  a  lively  interest  in  her 

J  Binelie 


Aunt  Jane,  and  to  regret  that  she  had 
not  arrived  in  time  to  make  her  acquaintance. 
She  knew  that  Miss  Hathaway  was  three  or  four 
years  younger  than  Mrs.  Thorne  would  have 
been,  had  she  lived,  and  that  a  legacy  had  re 
cently  come  to  her  from  an  old  friend,  but  that 
was  all,  aside  from  the  discoveries  in  the  attic. 

She  contemplated  the  crayon  portraits  in 
the  parlour  and  hoped  she  was  not  related  to 
any  of  them.  In  the  family  album  she  found 
no  woman  whom  she  would  have  liked  for  an 
aunt,  but  was  determined  to  know  the  worst. 

''Is  Miss  Hathaway 's  picture  here,  Hep- 
sey  ?"  she  asked. 

"No  'm.  Miss  Hathaway,  she  would  n't 
have  her  picter  in  the  parlour,  nohow.  Some 
folks  does,  but  Miss  Hathaway  says  't  'aint 
modest." 


4° 


Xavenfcer  anfc  ©R>  %ace 


"I  think  she's  right,  Hepsey,"  laughed 
Ruth,  "though  I  never  thought  of  it  in  just 
that  way.  I  '11  have  to  wait  until  she  comes 
home." 

In  the  afternoon  she  donned  the  short  skirt 
and  heavy  shoes  of  her  "office  rig,"  and 
started  down  hill  to  explore  the  village.  It 
was  a  day  to  tempt  one  out  of  doors,  —  cool 
and  bright,  with  that  indefinable  crispness 
which  belongs  to  Spring. 

The  hill  rose  sheer  from  the  highlands, 
which  sloped  to  the  river  on  the  left,  as  she 
went  down,  and  on  the  right  to  the  forest. 
A  side  path  into  the  woods  made  her  hesitate 
for  a  moment,  but  she  went  straight  on. 

It  was  the  usual  small  town,  which  nestles 
at  the  foot  of  a  hill  and  eventually  climbs  over 
it,  through  the  enterprise  of  its  wealthier  resi 
dents,  but,  save  for  Miss  Hathaway's  house, 
the  enterprise  had  not,  as  yet,  become  evi 
dent.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  on  the  left,  was 
Miss  Ainslie's  house  and  garden,  and  directly 
opposite,  with  the  width  of  the  hill  between 
them,  was  a  brown  house,  with  a  lawn,  but 
no  garden  except  that  devoted  to  vegetables. 

As  she  walked  through  the  village,  stopping 
to  look  at  the  display  of  merchandise  in  the 


/HMss  Binslie  41 


window  of  the  single  shop,  which  was  also 
post-office  and  grocery,  she  attracted  a  great 
deal  of  respectful  attention,  for,  in  this  com 
munity,  strangers  were  an  event.  Ruth  re 
flected  that  the  shop  had  only  to  grow  to 
about  fifty  times  its  present  size  in  order  to 
become  a  full-fledged  department  store  and 
bring  upon  the  town  the  rank  and  dignity  of 
a  metropolis. 

When  she  turned  her  face  homeward,  she 
had  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill  before  she 
realised  that  the  first  long  walk  over  coun 
try  roads  was  hard  for  one  accustomed  to 
city  pavements.  A  broad,  flat  stone  offered 
an  inviting  resting-place,  and  she  sat  down, 
in  the  shadow  of  Miss  Ainslie's  hedge,  hoping 
Joe  would  pass  in  time  to  take  her  to  the  top 
of  the  hill.  The  hedge  was  high  and  except 
for  the  gate  the  garden  was  secluded. 

"  I  seem  to  get  more  tired  every  minute," 
she  thought.  "I  wonder  if  I've  got  the 
rheumatism." 

She  scanned  the  horizon  eagerly  for  the 
dilapidated  conveyance  which  she  had  once 
both  feared  and  scorned.  No  sound  could 
have  been  more  welcome  than  the  rumble  of 
those  creaking  wheels,  nor  any  sight  more 


Xavenfcer  an& 


%ace 


£0(06 
Bfnslle 


pleasing  than  the  conflicting  expressions  in 
"  Mamie's  "  single  useful  eye.  She  sat  there 
a  long  time,  waiting  for  deliverance,  but  it  did 
not  come. 

"  I  '11  get  an  alpenstock,"  she  said  to  herself, 
as  she  rose,  wearily,  and  tried  to  summon 
courage  to  start.  Then  the  gate  clicked  softly 
and  the  sweetest  voice  in  the  world  said: 
"My  dear,  you  are  tired  —  won't  you  come 
in?" 

Turning,  she  saw  Miss  Ainslie,  smiling 
graciously.  In  a  moment  she  had  explained 
that  she  was  Miss  Hathaway's  niece  and  that 
she  would  be  very  glad  to  come  in  for  a  few 
moments. 

' '  Yes, "  said  the  sweet  voice  again,  ' '  I  know 
who  you  are.  Your  aunt  told  me  all  about 
you  and  I  trust  we  shall  be  friends." 

Ruth  followed  her  up  the  gravelled  path  to 
the  house,  and  into  the  parlour,  where  a  wood 
fire  blazed  cheerily  upon  the  hearth.  "  It  is  so 
damp  this  time  of  year,"  she  went  on,  "that 
I  like  to  keep  my  fire  burning." 

While  they  were  talking,  Ruth's  eyes  rested 
with  pleasure  upon  her  hostess.  She  herself 
was  tall,  but  Miss  Ainslie  towered  above  her. 
She  was  a  woman  of  poise  and  magnificent 


/DMss  Binslte 


43 


bearing,  and  she  had  the  composure  which 
comes  to  some  as  a  right  and  to  others  with 
long  social  training. 

Her  abundant  hair  was  like  spun  silver  —  it 
was  not  merely  white,  but  it  shone.  Her  skin 
was  as  fresh  and  fair  as  a  girl's,  and  when  she 
smiled,  one  saw  that  her  teeth  were  white  and 
even;  but  the  great  charm  of  her  face  was  her 
eyes.  They  were  violet,  so  deep  in  colour  as 
to  seem  almost  black  in  certain  lights,  and  be 
hind  them  lay  an  indescribable  something 
which  made  Ruth  love  her  instinctively.  She 
might  have  been  forty,  or  seventy,  but  she 
was  beautiful,  with  the  beauty  that  never 
fades. 

At  intervals,  not  wishing  to  stare,  Ruth 
glanced  around  the  room.  Having  once  seen 
the  woman,  one  could  not  fail  to  recognise 
her  house,  for  it  suited  her.  The  floors  were 
hardwood,  highly  polished,  and  partly  covered 
with  rare  Oriental  rugs.  The  walls  were  a 
soft,  dark  green,  bearing  no  disfiguring  design, 
and  the  windows  were  draped  with  net,  edged 
with  Duchesse  lace.  Miss  Hathaway's  cur 
tains  hung  straight  to  the  floor,  but  Miss 
Ainslie's  were  tied  back  with  white  cord. 
The  furniture  was  colonial  mahogany,  un- 


ftoies 
Btnelfe 


44 


spoiled  by  varnish,  and  rubbed  until  it  shone. 

"You  have  a  beautiful  home,"  said  Ruth, 
during  a  pause. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "I  like  it." 

"You  have  a  great  many  beautiful  things." 

"Yes,"  she  answered  softly,  "they  were 
given  to  me  by  a — a  friend." 

"She  must  have  had  a  great  many,"  ob 
served  Ruth,  admiring  one  of  the  rugs. 

A  delicate  pink  suffused  Miss  Ainslie's  face. 
"My  friend,"  she  said,  with  quiet  dignity, 
"is  a  seafaring  gentleman." 

That  explained  the  rugs,  Ruth  thought,  and 
the  vase,  of  finest  Cloisonne,  which  stood 
upon  the  mantel-shelf.  It  accounted  also  for 
the  bertha  of  Mechlin  lace,  which  was  fastened 
to  Miss  Ainslie's  gown,  of  lavender  cashmere, 
by  a  large  amethyst  inlaid  with  gold  and  sur 
rounded  by  baroque  pearls. 

For  some  little  time,  they  talked  of  Miss 
Hathaway  and  her  travels.  "I  told  her  she 
was  too  old  to  go,"  said  Miss  Ainslie,  smiling, 
"but  she  assured  me  that  she  could  take  care 
of  herself,  and  I  think  she  can.  Even  if  she 
could  n't,  she  is  perfectly  safe.  These  '  per 
sonally  conducted  '  parties  are  by  far  the  best, 
if  one  goes  alone,  for  the  first  time." 


/DMss  Hinslie  45 

Ruth  knew  that,  but  she  was  surprised, 
nevertheless.  "Won't  you  tell  me  about  my 
aunt,  Miss  Ainslie  ?  "  she  asked.  "  You  know 
I  've  never  seen  her." 

"Why,  yes,  of  course  I  will!  Where  shall 
I  begin?" 

"At  the  beginning,"  answered  Ruth,  with 
a  little  laugh. 

"The  beginning  is  very  far  away,  deary," 
said  Miss  Ainslie,  and  Ruth  fancied  she  heard 
a  sigh.  "She  came  here  long  before  1  did,  and 
we  were  girls  together.  She  lived  in  the  old 
house  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  with  her  father  and 
mother,  and  I  lived  here  with  mine.  We  were 
very  intimate  for  a  long  time,  and  then  we  had 
a  quarrel,  about  something  that  was  so  silly 
and  foolish  that  I  cannot  even  remember  what 
it  was.  For  five  years  —  no,  for  almost  six, 
we  passed  each  other  like  strangers,  because 
each  was  too  proud  and  stubborn  to  yield. 
But  death,  and  trouble,  brought  us  together 
again." 

"Who  spoke  first,"  asked  Ruth,  much 
interested,  "you  or  Aunt  Jane  ? " 

"It  was  I,  of  course.  I  don't  believe  she 
would  have  done  it.  She  was  always  stronger 
than  I,  and  though  I  can't  remember  the  cause 


46  %a\>enfcer  an&  ©U>  Xace 


a>tes  of  the  quarrel,  I  can  feel  the  hurt  to  my  pride, 
even  at  this  day." 

"I  know,  "answered  Ruth,  quickly,  "some 
thing  of  the  same  kind  once  happened  to  me, 
only  it  wasn't  pride  that  held  me  back  —  it 
was  just  plain  stubbornness.  Sometimes  I  am 
conscious  of  two  selves  —  one  of  me  is  a  nice, 
polite  person  that  I  'm  really  fond  of,  and  the 
other  is  so  contrary  and  so  mulish  that  I'm 
actually  afraid  of  her.  When  the  two  come  in 
conflict,  the  stubborn  one  always  wins.  I  'm 
sorry,  but  I  can't  help  it." 

"Don't  you  think  we're  all  like  that?" 
asked  Miss  Ainslie,  readily  understanding.  "  I 
do  not  believe  any  one  can  have  strength  of 
character  without  being  stubborn.  To  hold 
one's  position  in  the  face  of  obstacles,  and 
never  be  tempted  to  yield  —  to  me,  that  seems 
the  very  foundation." 

"Yes,  but  to  be  unable  to  yield  when  you 
know  you  should  —  that's  awful." 

"Is  it?"  inquired  Miss  Ainslie,  with  quiet 
amusement. 

"Ask  Aunt  Jane,"  returned  Ruth,  laughing. 
"  I  begin  to  perceive  our  definite  relationship." 

Miss  Ainslie  leaned  forward  to  put  another 
maple  log  on  the  fire.  "Tell  me  more  about 


47 

Aunt  Jane,"  Ruth  suggested.  "I'm  getting 
to  be  somebody's  relative,  instead  of  an  orphan, 
stranded  on  the  shore  of  the  world." 

"She's  hard  to  analyse,"  began  the  older 
woman.  "  I  have  never  been  able  to  reconcile 
her  firmness  with  her  softness.  She 's  as  hard 
as  New  England  granite,  but  I  think  she  wears 
it  like  a  mask.  Sometimes,  one  sees  through. 
She  scolds  me  very  often,  about  anything  that 
occurs  to  her,  but  I  never  pay  any  attention  to 
it.  She  says  I  should  n't  live  here  all  alone, 
and  that  I  deserve  to  have  something  dreadful 
happen  to  me,  but  she  had  all  the  trees  cut 
down  that  stood  on  the  hill  between  her 
window  and  mine,  and  had  a  key  made  to  my 
lower  door,  and  made  me  promise  that  if  I  was 
ill  at  any  time,  I  would  put  a  signal  in  my 
window  —  a  red  shawl  in  the  daytime  and  a 
light  at  night.  I  had  n't  any  red  shawl  and 
she  gave  me  hers. 

"One  night  —  I  shall  never  forget  it  —  I  had 
a  terrible  attack  of  neuralgia,  during  the  worst 
storm  I  have  ever  known.  I  did  n't  even  know 
that  I  put  the  light  in  the  window  —  I  was  so 
beside  myself  with  pain  —  but  she  came,  at 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  stayed  with 
me  until  I  was  all  right  again.  She  was  so 


Binslic 


gentle  and  so  tender —  I  shall  always  love  her 
for  that." 

The  sweet  voice  vibrated  with  feeling,  and 
Ruth's  thoughts  flew  to  the  light  in  the  attic 
window,  but,  no  —  it  could  not  be  seen  from 
Miss  Ainslie's.  "What  does  Aunt  Jane  look 
like?"  she  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"I  haven't  a  picture,  except  one  that  was 
taken  a  long  time  ago,  but  I  '11  get  that."  She 
went  upstairs  and  returned,  presently,  putting 
an  old-fashioned  ambrotype  into  Ruth's  hand. 

The  velvet-lined  case  enshrined  Aunt  Jane 
in  the  bloom  of  her  youth.  It  was  a  young 
woman  of  twenty  or  twenty-five,  seated  in  a 
straight-backed  chair,  with  her  hands  encased 
in  black  lace  mitts  and  folded  in  the  lap  of  her 
striped  silk  gown.  The  forehead  was  high, 
protruding  slightly,  the  eyes  rather  small,  and 
very  dark,  the  nose  straight,  and  the  little  chin 
exceedingly  firm  and  determined.  There  was 
an  expression  of  maidenly  wistfulness  some 
where,  which  Ruth  could  not  definitely  locate, 
but  there  was  no  hint  of  it  in  the  chin. 

"  Poor  little  Aunt  Jane,"  said  Ruth.  "Life 
never  would  be  easy  for  her." 

"No,"  returned  Miss  Ainslie,  "but  she 
would  not  let  anyone  know." 


/HMss  Binslie  49 

Ruth  strolled  over  to  the  window,  thinking 
that  she  must  be  going,  and  Miss  Ainslie  still 
held  the  picture  in  her  hand.  "  She  had  a 
lover,  did  n't  she  ?  "  asked  Ruth,  idly. 

"I  —  I  —  think  so,"  answered  the  other, 
unwillingly.  "  You  remember  we  quarrelled." 

A  young  man  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  looked  at  Miss  Ainslie's  house,  and  then 
at  the  brown  one  across  the  hill.  From  her 
position  in  the  window,  Ruth  saw  him  plainly. 
He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went  toward 
the  brown  house.  She  noted  that  he  was  a 
stranger  —  there  was  no  such  topcoat  in  the 
village. 

"Was  his  name  Winfield  ?"  she  asked  sud 
denly,  then  instantly  hated  herself  for  the 
question. 

The  ambrotype  fell  to  the  floor.  Miss 
Ainslie  stooped  to  pick  it  up  and  Ruth  did 
not  see  her  face.  "Perhaps,"  she  said,  in  a 
strange  tone,  "but  I  never  have  asked  a  lady 
the  name  of  her  friend." 

Gentle  as  it  was,  Ruth  felt  the  rebuke  keenly. 
An  apology  was  on  her  lips,  but  only  her 
flushed  cheeks  betrayed  any  emotion.  Miss 
Ainslie's  face  was  pale,  and  there  was  unmis 
takable  resentment  in  her  eyes. 


5o  %av>enfcer  anfc  ©10  Xace 

"I  must  go,"  Ruth  said,  after  an  awkward 
BfiwUc 

silence,  and  in   an   instant   Miss  Ainslie  was 

herself  again. 

"No  —  you  must  n't  go,  deary.  You  have 
n't  seen  my  garden  yet.  I  have  planted  all 
the  seeds  and  some  of  them  are  coming  up. 
Is  n't  it  beautiful  to  see  things  grow  ?" 

"It  is  indeed,"  Ruth  assented,  forgetting 
the  momentary  awkwardness,  "and  I  have 
lived  for  a  long  time  where  I  have  seen  no 
thing  grow  but  car  tracks  and  high  buildings. 
May  I  come  again  and  see  your  garden  ?  " 

"I  shall  be  so  glad  to  have  you,"  replied 
Miss  Ainslie,  with  a  quaint  stateliness.  "  I 
have  enjoyed  your  visit  so  much  and  I  hope 
you  will  come  again  very  soon." 

"Thank  you  —  I  will." 

Her  hostess  had  opened  the  door  for  her, 
but  Ruth  stood  in  the  hall,  waiting,  in  obedi 
ence  to  some  strange  impulse.  Then  she 
stepped  outside,  but  something  held  her 
back  —  something  that  lay  unspoken  between 
them.  Those  unfathomable  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  her,  questioning,  pleading,  and  search 
ing  her  inmost  soul. 

Ruth  looked  at  her,  wondering,  and  striv 
ing  to  answer  the  mute  appeal.  Then  Miss 


Btnslie  51 


Ainslie  laid  her  hand  upon  her  arm.  "My 
dear,"  she  asked,  earnestly,  "  do  you  light  the 
lamp  in  the  attic  window  every  night  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  Miss  Ainslie,"  she  answered, 
quickly. 

The  older  woman  caught  her  breath,  as  if 
in  relief,  and  then  the  deep  crimson  flooded 
her  face. 

"  Hepsey  told  me  and  Aunt  Jane  left  a  letter 
about  it,"  Ruth  continued,  hastily,  "and  I  am 
very  glad  to  do  it.  It  would  be  dreadful  to 
have  a  ship  wrecked,  almost  at  our  door." 

"Yes,"  sighed  Miss  Ainslie,  her  colour  re 
ceding,  "  I  have  often  thought  of  'those  who 
go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships.'  It  is  so  terrible, 
and  sometimes,  when  I  hear  the  surf  beating 
against  the  cliff,  I  —  I  am  afraid." 

Ruth  climbed  the  hill,  interested,  happy, 
yet  deeply  disturbed.  Miss  Ainslie's  beauti 
ful,  changing  face  seemed  to  follow  her,  and 
the  exquisite  scent  of  the  lavender,  which  had 
filled  the  rooms,  clung  to  her  senses  like  a 
benediction. 

Hepsey  was  right,  and  unquestionably  Miss 
Ainslie  had  something  to  do  with  the  light; 
but  no  deep  meaning  lay  behind  it  —  so  much 
was  certain.  She  had  lived  alone  so  long  that 


52  %ax>enfcer  anfc  ©lfc  %ace 

she  had  grown  to  have  a  great  fear  of  ship 
wreck,  possibly  on  account  of  her  friend,  the 
"seafaring  gentleman,"  and  had  asked  Miss 
Hathaway  to  put  the  light  in  the  window — 
that  was  all. 

Ruth's  reason  was  fully  satisfied,  but  some 
thing  else  was  not.  "  1  'm  not  going  to  think 
about  it  any  more,"  she  said  to  herself,  reso 
lutely,  and  thought  she  meant  it. 

She  ate  her  dinner  with  the  zest  of  hunger, 
while  Hepsey  noiselessly  served  her.  "  I 
have  been  to  Miss  Ainslie's,  Hepsey,"  she  said 
at  length,  not  wishing  to  appear  unsociable. 

The  maid's  clouded  visage  cleared  for  an 
instant.  "  Did  you  find  out  about  the  lamp  ?  " 
she  inquired,  eagerly. 

"No,  I  did  n't,  Hepsey;  but  I  '11  tell  you 
what  I  think.  Miss  Ainslie  has  read  a  great 
deal  and  has  lived  alone  so  much  that  she  has 
become  very  much  afraid  of  shipwreck.  You 
know  all  of  us  have  some  one  fear.  For  in 
stance,  I  am  terribly  afraid  of  green  worms, 
though  a  green  worm  has  never  harmed  me. 
I  think  she  asked  Miss  Hathaway  to  put  the 
lamp  in  the  window,  and  possibly  told  her  of 
something  she  had  read  which  made  her  feel 
that  she  should  have  done  it  before." 


Hinslte  53 


Hepsey's  face  took  on  its  old,  impenetrable 
calm. 

"  Don't  you  think  so  ?  "  asked  Miss  Thorne, 
after  a  long  pause. 

"Yes'm." 

"  It  's  all  very  reasonable,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"Yes'm." 

In  spite  of  the  seeming  assent,  she  knew 
that  Hepsey  was  not  convinced;  and  after 
ward,  when  she  came  into  the  room  with  the 
attic  lamp  and  a  box  of  matches,  the  mystery 
returned  to  trouble  Ruth  again. 

"  If  I  don't  take  up  tatting,"  she  thought,  as 
she  went  upstairs,  "or  find  something  else  to 
do,  I  '11  be  a  meddling  old  maid  inside  of  six 
months." 


54 


H  Guest 


IV 

a  (Sliest 

AS  the  days  went  by,  Ruth  had  the  inev 
itable  reaction.  At  first  the  country 
brought  balm  to  her  tired  nerves,  and  she 
rested  luxuriously,  but  she  had  not  been  at 
Miss  Hathaway's  a  fortnight  before  she  bit 
terly  regretted  the  step  she  had  taken. 

Still  there  was  no  going  back,  for  she  had 
given  her  word,  and  must  stay  there  until 
October.  The  months  before  her  stretched 
out  into  a  dreary  waste.  She  thought  of  Miss 
Ainslie  gratefully,  as  a  redeeming  feature,  but 
she  knew  that  it  was  impossible  to  spend  all 
of  her  time  in  the  house  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

Half  past  six  had  seemed  an  unearthly  hour 
for  breakfast,  and  yet  more  than  once  Ruth 
had  been  downstairs  at  five  o'clock,  before 
Hepsey  was  stirring.  There  was  no  rest  to 
be  had  anywhere,  even  after  a  long  walk 
through  the  woods  and  fields.  Inaction  be- 


H  (Buest 


55 


came  irritation,  and  each  day  was  filled  with 
a  thousand  unbearable  annoyances.  She  was 
fretful,  moody,  and  restless,  always  wishing 
herself  back  in  the  office,  yet  knowing  that 
she  could  not  do  good  work,  even  if  she  were 
there. 

She  sat  in  her  room  one  afternoon,  frankly 
miserable,  when  Hepsey  stalked  in,  unan 
nounced,  and  gave  her  a  card. 

"Mr.  Carl  Winfield !  "  Ruth  repeated  aloud. 
"Some  one  to  see  me,  Hepsey?"  she  asked, 
in  astonishment. 

"  Yes  'm.     He  's  a-waitin'  on  the  piazzer." 

"Did  n't  you  ask  him  to  come  in  ?  " 

"No'm.  Miss  Hathaway,  she  don't  want 
no  strangers  in  her  house." 

"Go  down  immediately,"  commanded 
Ruth,  sternly,  "ask  him  into  the  parlour,  and 
say  that  Miss  Thorne  will  be  down  in  a  few 
moments." 

"Yes'm." 

Hepsey  shuffled  downstairs  with  comfort 
able  leisure,  opened  the  door  with  aggravat 
ing  slowness,  then  said,  in  a  harsh  tone  that 
reached  the  upper  rooms  distinctly:  "Miss 
Thorne,  she  says  that  you  can  come  in  and 
set  in  the  parlour  till  she  comes  down." 


(Sueet 


56 


anfc  $ld  Xace 


"Thank  you,"  responded  a  masculine 
voice,  in  quiet  amusement;  "Miss  Thorne  is 
kind  —  and  generous." 

Ruth's  cheeks  flushed  hotly.  "  I  don't 
know  whether  Miss  Thorne  will  go  down  or 
not,"  she  said  to  herself.  "It's  probably  a 
book-agent." 

She  rocked  pensively  for  a  minute  or  two, 
wondering  what  would  happen  if  she  did  not 
go  down.  There  was  no  sound  from  the 
parlour  save  a  subdued  clearing  of  the  throat. 
"  He  's  getting  ready  to  speak  his  piece,"  she 
thought,  "and  he  might  as  well  do  it  now 
as  to  wait  for  me." 

Though  she  loathed  Mr.  Carl  Winfield  and 
his  errand,  whatever  it  might  prove  to  be, 
she  stopped  before  her  mirror  long  enough  to 
give  a  pat  or  two  to  her  rebellious  hair.  On 
the  way  down  she  determined  to  be  dignified, 
icy,  and  crushing. 

A  tall  young  fellow  with  a  pleasant  face 
rose  to  greet  her  as  she  entered  the  room. 
"  Miss  Thorne  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"Yes  —  please  sit  down.  I  am  very  sorry 
that  my  maid  should  have  been  so  inhospita 
ble."  It  was  not  what  she  had  meant  to  say. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  replied,  easily; 


B  (Buest 


"I  quite  enjoyed  it.  I  must  ask  your  pardon 
for  coming  to  you  in  this  abrupt  way,  but 
Carlton  gave  me  a  letter  to  you,  and  I  've  lost 
it."  Carlton  was  the  managing  editor,  and 
vague  expectations  of  a  summons  to  the  office 
came  into  Ruth's  mind. 

"  I'm  on  The  Herald,"  he  went  on ;  "  that 
is,  I  was,  until  my  eyes  gave  out,  and  then  they 
did  n't  want  me  any  more.  Newspapers  can't 
use  anybody  out  of  repair,"  he  added,  grimly. 

"I  know,"  Ruth  answered,  nodding. 

"Of  course  the  office  isn't  a  sanitarium, 
though  they  need  that  kind  of  an  annex;  nor 
yet  a  literary  kindergarten,  which  I  've  known 
it  to  be  taken  for,  but — well,  I  won't  tell  you 
my  troubles.  The  oculist  said  I  must  go  to 
the  country  for  six  months,  stay  outdoors, 
and  neither  read  nor  write.  I  went  to  see 
Carlton,  and  he  promised  me  a  berth  in  the 
Fall — they  're  going  to  have  a  morning  edition, 
too,  you  know." 

Miss  Thorne  did  not  know,  but  she  was 
much  interested. 

"  Carlton  advised  me  to  come  up  here,"  re 
sumed  Winfield.  "He  said  you  were  here, 
and  that  you  were  going  back  in  the  Fall.  I  'm 
sorry  I  've  lost  his  letter." 


%av>ent>ec  ant> 


2lace 


H©ue0t  "What  was  in  it?"  inquired  Ruth,  with  a 
touch  of  sarcasm.  "You  read  it,  did  n't 
you?" 

"  Of  course  I  read  it — that  is,  I  tried  to. 
The  thing  looked  like  a  prescription,  but,  as 
nearly  as  I  could  make  it  out,  it  was  principally 
a  description  of  the  desolation  in  the  office 
since  you  left  it.  At  the  end  there  was  a  line 
or  two  commending  me  to  your  tender  mer 
cies,  and  here  I  am." 

"  Commending  yourself." 

"Now  what  in  the  dickens  have  I  done  ?" 
thought  Winfield.  "That 's  it  exactly,  Miss 
Thorne.  I  've  lost  my  reference,  and  I  'm  do 
ing  my  best  to  create  a  good  impression  with 
out  it.  I  thought  that  as  long  as  we  were 
going  to  be  on  the  same  paper,  and  were  both 
exiles " 

He  paused,  and  she  finished  the  sentence 
for  him:  "that  you 'd  come  to  see  me.  How 
long  have  you  been  in  town  ?  " 

"  '  In  town  '  is  good,"  he  said.  "I  arrived 
in  this  desolate,  God-forsaken  spot  just  ten 
days  ago.  Until  now  I  've  hunted  and  fished 
every  day,  but  I  did  n't  get  anything  but  a 
cold.  It  was  very  good,  of  its  kind — I  could  n't 
speak  above  a  whisper  for  three  days." 


Guest 


59 


She  had  already  recognised  him  as  the 
young  man  she  saw  standing  in  the  road  the 
day  she  went  to  Miss  Ainslie's,  and  mentally 
asked  his  pardon  for  thinking  he  was  a  book- 
agent.  He  might  become  a  pleasant  acquaint 
ance,  for  he  was  tall,  clean  shaven,  and  well 
built.  His  hands  were  white  and  shapely 
and  he  was  well  groomed,  though  not  in  the 
least  foppish.  The  troublesome  eyes  were 
dark  brown,  sheltered  by  a  pair  of  tinted 
glasses.  His  face  was  very  expressive,  re 
sponding  readily  to  every  change  of  mood. 

They  talked  "shop"  for  a  time,  discover 
ing  many  mutual  friends,  and  Ruth  liked 
him.  He  spoke  easily,  though  hurriedly,  and 
appeared  to  be  somewhat  cynical,  but  she 
rightly  attributed  it  to  restlessness  like  her 
own. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  on  The  Tri 
bune?  "  she  asked. 

"Anything,"  he  answered,  with  an  inde 
finable  shrug.  "  'Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
theirs  but  to  do  and  die.'  What  are  you  go 
ing  to  do?" 

"The  same,"  replied  Ruth.  "'Society,' 
'  Mother's  Corner,'  'Under  the  Evening  Lamp,' 
and  '  In  the  Kitchen  with  Aunt  Jenny.'  " 


II  (Bneel 


6o 


Xavenfcer  anfc 


Xacc 


•a  ©ue0t  He  laughed  infectiously.  "  I  wish  Carlton 
could  hear  you  say  that." 

"I  don't,"  returned  Ruth,  colouring  faintly. 

' '  Why ;  are  you  afraid  of  him  ?  " 

"Certainly  I  am.  If  he  speaks  to  me,  I  'm 
instantly  stiff  with  terror." 

"Oh,  he  isn't  so  bad,"  said  Winfield,  re 
assuringly.  "He's  naturally  abrupt,  that's 
all;  and  I  '11  venture  he  doesn't  suspect  that 
he  has  any  influence  over  you.  I  'd  never 
fancy  that  you  were  afraid  of  anybody  or  any 
thing  on  earth." 

"I  'm  not  afraid  of  anything  else,"  she  an 
swered,  "except  burglars  and  green  worms." 

"Carlton  would  enjoy  the  classification — 
really,  Miss  Thorne,  somebody  should  tell 
him,  don't  you  think  ?  So  much  innocent 
pleasure  does  n't  often  come  into  the  day  of  a 
busy  man." 

For  a  moment  Ruth  was  angry,  and  then, 
all  at  once,  she  knew  Winfield  as  if  he  had 
always  been  her  friend.  Conventionality, 
years,  and  the  veneer  of  society  were  lightly 
laid  upon  one  who  would  always  be  a  boy. 
Some  men  are  old  at  twenty,  but  Winfield 
would  be  young  at  seventy. 

"You  can  tell  him  if  you  want  to,"  Ruth 


a  Guest 


61 


rejoined,  calmly.  "He'll  be  so  pleased  that 
he  '11  double  your  salary  on  the  spot." 

"And  you?"  he  asked,  his  eyes  twinkling 
with  fun. 

"I  '11  be  pensioned,  of  course." 

"You're  all  right,"  he  returned,  "but  I 
guess  I  won't  tell  him.  Riches  lead  to  tempta 
tion,  and  if  I  'm  going  to  be  on  The  Tribune 
I  'd  hate  to  have  you  pensioned." 

Hepsey  appeared  to  have  a  great  deal  of 
employment  in  the  dining-room,  and  was  very 
quiet  about  it,  with  long  pauses  between  her 
leisurely  movements.  Winfield  did  not  seem 
to  notice  it,  but  it  jarred  upon  Ruth,  and  she 
was  relieved  when  he  said  he  must  go. 

"You  '11  come  again,  won't  you?"  she  asked. 

"I  will,  indeed." 

She  stood  at  the  window,  unconsciously 
watching  him  as  he  went  down  the  hill  with 
a  long,  free  stride.  She  liked  the  strength  in 
his  broad  shoulders,  his  well  modulated  voice, 
and  his  clear,  honest  eyes;  but  after  all  he  was 
nothing  but  a  boy. 

''Miss  Thorne,"  said  Hepsey,  at  her  elbow, 
"is  that  your  beau?"  It  was  not  impertin 
ence,  but  sheer  friendly  interest  which  could 
not  be  mistaken  for  anything  else. 


H  Guest 


62 


%avenber  ant> 


Xace 


B  ©Meet          "No,"  she  answered;   "of  course  not." 

"  He  's  real  nice-lookin',  ain't  he  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Have  you  got  your  eye  on  anybody 
else?" 

"No." 

"Then,  Miss  Thorne,  I  don't  know  's  you 
could  do  better." 

"Perhaps  not."  She  was  thinking,  and 
spoke  mechanically.  From  where  she  stood 
she  could  still  see  him  walking  rapidly  down 
the  hill. 

"  Ain't  you  never  seen  him  before  ?" 

Miss  Thorne  turned.  "Hepsey,"  she  said, 
coldly,  "  please  go  into  the  kitchen  and  attend 
to  your  work.  And  the  next  time  I  have 
company,  please  stay  in  the  kitchen  —  not  in 
the  dining-room." 

"Yes'm,"  replied  Hepsey,  meekly,  hasten 
ing  to  obey. 

She  was  not  subtle,  but  she  understood 
that  in  some  way  she  had  offended  Miss 
Thorne,  and  racked  her  brain  vainly.  She 
had  said  nothing  that  she  would  not  have  said 
to  Miss  Hathaway,  and  had  intended  nothing 
but  friendliness.  As  for  her  being  in  the  din 
ing-room — why,  very  often,  when  Miss  Hath- 


a  Ouest 


away  had  company,  she  was  called  in  to  give 
her  version  of  some  bit  of  village  gossip.  Miss 
Hathaway  scolded  her  when  she  was  dis 
pleased,  but  never  before  had  any  one  spoken 
to  Hepsey  in  a  measured,  icy  tone  that  was  at 
once  lady-like  and  commanding.  Tears  came 
into  her  eyes,  for  she  was  sensitive,  after  all. 

A  step  sounded  overhead,  and  Hepsey  re 
gained  her  self-possession.  She  had  heard 
nearly  all  of  the  conversation  and  could  have 
told  Miss  Thorne  a  great  deal  about  the  young 
man.  For  instance,  he  had  not  said  that  he 
was  boarding  at  Joe's,  across  the  road  from 
Miss  Ainslie's,  and  that  he  intended  to  stay  all 
Summer.  She  could  have  told  her  of  an  un 
certain  temper,  peculiar  tastes,  and  of  a  silver 
shaving-cup  which  Joe  had  promised  her  a 
glimpse  of  before  the  visitor  went  back  to  the 
city;  but  she  decided  to  let  Miss  Thorne  go 
on  in  her  blind  ignorance. 

Ruth,  meanwhile,  was  meditating,  with  an 
aggravated  restlessness.  The  momentary 
glimpse  of  the  outer  world  had  stung  her  into 
a  sense  of  her  isolation,  which  she  realised 
even  more  keenly  than  before.  It  was  be 
cause  of  this,  she  told  herself,  that  she  hoped 
Winfield  liked  her,  for  it  was  not  her  wont  to 


64 


XavenDer  anfc 


%ace 


B  ©ucst  care  about  such  trifles.  He  thought  of  her, 
idly,  as  a  nice  girl,  who  was  rather  pretty 
when  she  was  interested  in  anything;  but, 
with  a  woman's  insight,  influenced  insensibly 
by  Hepsey's  comment,  Ruth  scented  possi 
bilities. 

She  wanted  him  to  like  her,  to  stay  in  that 
miserable  village  as  long  as  she  did,  and  keep 
her  mind  from  stagnation — her  thought  went 
no  farther  than  that.  In  October,  when  they 
went  back,  she  would  thank  Carlton,  pret 
tily,  for  sending  her  a  friend — provided  they 
did  not  quarrel.  She  could  see  long  days  of 
intimate  companionship,  of  that  exalted  kind 
which  is  possible  only  when  man  and  woman 
meet  on  a  high  plane.  "We  're  both  too  old 
for  nonsense,"  she  thought;  and  then  a  sud 
den  fear  struck  her, — that  Winfield  might  be 
several  years  younger  than  she  was. 

Immediately  she  despised  herself.  "I  don't 
care  if  he  is,"  she  thought,  with  her  cheeks 
crimson;  "it's  nothing  to  me.  He 's  a  nice 
boy,  and  I  want  to  be  amused." 

She  went  to  her  dresser,  took  out  the  large 
top  drawer,  and  dumped  its  contents  on  the 
bed.  It  was  a  desperate  measure,  for  Ruth 
hated  to  put  things  in  order.  The  newspaper 


H  (Buest 


which  had  lain  in  the  bottom  of  it  had  fallen 
out  also,  and  she  shook  it  so  violently  that  she 
tore  it. 

Then  ribbons,  handkerchiefs,  stocks,  gloves, 
and  collars  were  unceremoniously  hustled  back 
into  the  drawer,  for  Miss  Thorne  was  at  odds 
with  herself  and  the  world.  She  was  angry 
with  Hepsey,  she  hated  Winfield,  and  despised 
herself.  She  picked  up  a  scrap  of  paper  which 
lay  on  a  glove,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  un 
familiar  penmanship. 

It  was  apparently  the  end  of  a  letter,  and 
the  rest  of  it  was  gone.  "At  Gibraltar  for 
some  time,"  she  read,  "keeping  a  shop,  but 
will  probably  be  found  now  in  some  small 
town  on  the  coast  of  Italy.  Very  truly  yours." 
The  signature  had  been  torn  off. 

"Why,  that  isn't  mine,"  she  thought.  "It 
must  be  something  of  Aunt  Jane's."  Another 
bit  of  paper  lay  near  it,  and,  unthinkingly,  she 
read  a  letter  which  was  not  meant  for  her. 

"I  thank  you  from  my  heart,"  it  began, 
"for  understanding  me.  I  could  not  put  it 
into  words,  but  I  believe  you  know.  Perhaps 
you  think  it  is  useless — that  it  is  too  late;  but 
if  it  was,  I  would  know.  You  have  been  very 
kind,  and  I  thank  you." 


H  (Sucst 


66 


Xace 


a  Oueat  There  was  neither  date,  address,  nor  signa 
ture.  The  message  stood  alone,  as  absolutely 
as  some  far-off  star  whose  light  could  not  be 
seen  from  the  earth.  Some  one  understood 
it  —  two  understood  it — the  writer  and  Aunt 
Jane. 

Ruth  put  it  back,  under  the  paper,  with  the 
scrap  of  the  other  letter,  and  closed  the  drawer 
with  a  bang.  "I  hope,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"that  while  I  stay  here  I  '11  be  mercifully  pre 
served  from  finding  things  that  are  none  of 
my  business."  Then,  as  in  a  lightning  flash, 
for  an  instant  she  saw  clearly. 

Fate  plays  us  many  tricks  and  assumes 
strange  forms,  but  Ruth  knew  that  some  day, 
on  that  New  England  hill,  she  would  come 
face  to  face  with  a  destiny  that  had  been  or 
dained  from  the  beginning.  Something  waited 
for  her  there — some  great  change.  She  trem 
bled  at  the  thought,  but  was  not  afraid. 


IRumoure  of  tbe  IDallep 

MISS  THORNE,"  said  Hepsey,  from  the 
doorway  of  Ruth's  room,  "that  fel 
ler's  here  again."  There  was  an  unconscious 
emphasis  on  the  last  word,  and  Ruth  herself 
was  somewhat  surprised,  for  she  had  not  ex 
pected  another  call  so  soon. 

"He's  a-settin'  in  the  parlour,"  continued 
Hepsey,  "when  he  ain't  a-walkin'  around  it 
and  wearin'  out  the  carpet.  I  did  n't  come 
up  when  he  first  come,  on  account  of  my  pie 
crust  bein'  all  ready  to  put  in  the  oven." 

"How  long  has  he  been  here?"  asked 
Ruth,  dabbing  a  bit  of  powder  on  her  nose 
and  selecting  a  fresh  collar. 

"Oh,  p'raps  half  an  hour." 

"That  isn't  right,  Hepsey;  when  any  one 
comes  you  must  tell  me  immediately.  Never 
mind  the  pie  crust  next  time."  Ruth  endeav 
oured  to  speak  kindly,  but  she  was  irritated 
at  the  necessity  of  making  another  apology. 


Ubc 

•Rumours 
of  tbe 


68 


2lav>enfcer  anb  ©ID  3Uce 


TTbc 

tftumoura 
of  tbe 


When  she  went  down,  Winfield  dismissed 
her  excuses  with  a  comprehensive  wave  of 
the  hand.  "  I  always  have  to  wait  when  I  go 
to  call  on  a  girl,"  he  said;  "it's  one  of  the 
most  charming  vagaries  of  the  ever-feminine. 
I  used  to  think  that  perhaps  I  was  n't  popular, 
but  every  fellow  I  know  has  the  same  expe 
rience." 

"I'm  an  exception,"  explained  Ruth;  "I 
never  keep  any  one  waiting.  Of  my  own  vo 
lition,  that  is,"  she  added,  hastily,  feeling  his 
unspoken  comment. 

"I  came  up  this  afternoon  to  ask  a  favour 
of  you,"  he  began.  "Won't  you  go  for  a 
walk  with  me  ?  It 's  wrong  to  stay  indoors 
on  a  day  like  this." 

"Wait  till  I  get  my  hat,"  said  Ruth,  rising. 

"Fifteen  minutes  is  the  limit,"  he  called  to 
her,  as  she  went  upstairs. 

She  was  back  again  almost  immediately, 
and  Hepsey  watched  them  in  wide-mouthed 
astonishment  as  they  went  down  hill  to 
gether,  for  it  was  not  in  her  code  of  manners 
that  "walking  out"  should  begin  so  soon. 
When  they  approached  Miss  Ainslie's  he 
pointed  out  the  brown  house  across  from  it, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hill. 


IRumouus 


69 


"Yonder  palatial  mansion  is  my  present 
lodging,"  he  volunteered,  "and  I  am  a  help 
less  fly  in  the  web  of  the  '  Widder '  Pen- 
dleton." 

"Pendleton,"  repeated  Ruth;  "why,  that's 
Joe's  name." 

"It  is,"  returned  Winfield,  concisely.  "He 
sits  opposite  me  at  the  table,  and  wonders  at 
my  use  of  a  fork.  It  is  considered  merely  a 
spear  for  bread  and  meat  at  the  'Widder's.' 
I  am  observed  closely  at  all  times,  and  in  some 
respects  Joe  admires  me  enough  to  attempt 
imitation,  which,  as  you  know,  is  the  highest 
form  of  flattery.  For  instance,  this  morning 
he  wore  not  only  a  collar  and  tie,  but  a  scarf 
pin.  It  was  a  string  tie,  and  I  Ve  never  be 
fore  seen  a  pin  worn  in  one,  but  it 's  in 
teresting." 

"It  must  be." 

"He  has  a  sweetheart,"  Winfield  went  on, 
"and  I  expect  she  '11  be  dazzled." 

"My  Hepsey  is  his  lady  love,"  Ruth  ex 
plained. 

"What  ?  The  haughty  damsel  who  would 
n't  let  me  in  ?  Do  tell!" 

"You're  imitating  now,"  laughed  Ruth, 
"but  I  should  n  't  call  it  flattery." 


utx 

IRumoura 
of  tbe 
Pallet 


anfc 


OLace 


"No  ?     It  all  depends  on  the  way  you  look 

IRumoura  .          ,     .          . 

of  tbc  at  it.  The  point  of  view  is  everything  in  this 
world.  Yours  is  naturally  lofty  because  you 
live  on  a  hill." 

As  they  passed  Miss  Ainslie's  house,  Ruth 
had  a  glimpse  of  a  lavender  gown,  flitting 
among  the  flower  beds,  then,  in  a  moment, 
the  hedge  screened  her. 

"  I  've  heard  all  the  village  gossip,"  he  said. 
"The  secluded  person  across  the  way  is  half 
crazy." 

"She  is  not,"  retorted  Ruth,  indignantly. 
"She's  the  dearest,  sweetest  woman  in  the 
whole  world." 

Winfield  liked  her  spirit  and  her  loyalty,  but 
he  merely  said :  "  Why  vilify  the  phonograph  ? 
I  am  but  the  humble  instrument  of  repetition." 

"  You  should  n't  repeat  such  things!  " 

"  Excuse  me — I  '11  never  do  it  again.  I  for 
got,  for  the  moment,  that  you  were  'a  lady 
detective.'  ' 

The  colour  flamed  in  her  cheeks.  "What 
do  you  mean  ?"  she  demanded. 

"  Pray  calm  yourself,  Miss  Thorne — there  is 
really  no  immediate  danger.  There  is  plenty 
of  time  to  launch  the  life-boat  before  the  ship 
turns  over." 


"Rumours  ot  tbe  IDallep 


His  teasing  manner  made  her  realise  that  she 
was  making  herself  ridiculous.  "I  won't  be 
cross,"  she  said,  pleasantly.  "  Tell  me  all  the 
village  gossip." 

"  '  Consistency,  thou  art  a  jewel.'  ' 

"Because  of  scarcity,"  she  commented,  as 
they  turned  into  a  path  which  led  to  the  woods. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  a  dweller  on  the  heights 
should  care  for  the  rumours  of  the  valley  ?  " 

"Not  only  possible,  but  probable." 

"  Very  well,  Miss  Thorne.  You  are  said  to 
be  a  peculiar  woman  and  I  cannot  deny  the 
report.  I  have  no  authority  to  deny  it,"  he 
added,  as  Ruth  flashed  a  meaning  glance  at 
him.  "You  have  burned  oil  until  after  ten 
o'clock  at  night,  have  gone  spooking  around 
the  house  at  all  hours,  and  have  once  spent  a 
whole  day  in  the  attic." 

Ruth  was  looking  straight  ahead,  with  her 
chin  held  high  and  a  faint  flush  on  her  face. 
Winfield  looked  at  her  pure,  proud  profile, 
and  wondered  if  he  dared.  The  poise  of  her 
head  was  distinctly  discouraging,  but  he  was 
naturally  fond  of  adventure,  so  he  cleared  his 
throat  and  took  a  deep  plunge. 

"You  have  large  feet  and  wear  men's 
shoes." 


IRumoure 
of  tbe 
fallcv 


3Lacc 


For  a  moment,  there  was  a  chilly  silence. 
Ruth  did  not  look  at  him,  but  she  bit  her  lip 
and  then  laughed,  unwillingly.  "  It 's  all  true, " 
she  said,  "I  plead  guilty." 

"  You  see,  I  know  all  about  you,"  he  went 
on.  "You  knit  your  brows  in  deep  thought, 
do  not  hear  when  you  are  spoken  to,  even  in 
a  loud  voice,  and  your  mail  consists  almost 
entirely  of  bulky  envelopes,  of  a  legal  nature, 
such  as  came  to  the  '  Widder '  Pendleton  from 
the  insurance  people." 

"Returned  manuscripts,"  she  interjected. 

"  Possibly — far  be  it  from  me  to  say  they  're 
not.  Why,  I  've  had  'em  myself." 

"You  don't  mean  it!"  she  exclaimed, 
ironically. 

"You  seek  out,  as  if  by  instinct,  the  only 
crazy  person  in  the  village,  and  come  home 
greatly  perturbed.  You  ask  queer  questions 
of  your  humble  serving-maid,  assume  a  skirt 
which  is  shorter  than  the  approved  model, 
speaking  from  the  village  standpoint,  and  un 
hesitatingly  appear  on  the  public  streets. 
You  go  to  the  attic  at  night  and  search  the 
inmost  recesses  of  many  old  trunks." 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Ruth,  "  I  've  done  all  that." 

"At  breakfast  you  refuse  pie,  and  complain 


IRumours  of  tbe  IDallev 


73 


because  the  coffee  is  boiled.     Did  anybody 

r        /v        ,1  >>.   i     -i    j  -,       i         IRnmourB 

ever  hear  of  coffee  that  was  n  t  boiled?  Is  oftbe 
it  eaten  raw  in  the  city  ?  You  call  supper 
'dinner,'  and  have  been  known  to  seek  nour 
ishment  at  nine  o'clock  at  night,  when  all  re 
spectable  people  are  sound  asleep.  In  your 
trunk,  you  have  vainly  attempted  to  conceal  a 
large  metal  object,  the  use  of  which  is  un 
known." 

"Oh,  my  hapless  chafing-dish!"  groaned 
Ruth. 

"Chafing-dish  ?"  repeated  Winfield,  bright 
ening  visibly.  "And  I  eating  sole  leather  and 
fried  potatoes  ?  From  this  hour  I  am  your 
slave — you  can't  lose  me  now!  " 

"Goon,"  she  commanded. 

"I  can't  —  the  flow  of  my  eloquence  is 
stopped  by  rapturous  anticipation.  Suffice  it 
to  say  that  the  people  of  this  enterprising  city 
are  well  up  in  the  ways  of  the  wicked  world, 
for  the  storekeeper  takes  The  New  York 
Weekly  and  the  'Widder'  Pendleton  sub 
scribes  for  The  Fireside  Companion.  The 
back  numbers,  which  are  not  worn  out,  are 
the  circulating  library  of  the  village.  It 's  no 
use,  Miss  Thorne — you  might  stand  on  your 
hilltop  and  proclaim  your  innocence  until  you 


74 


Xace 


were  hoarse,  and  it  would  be  utterly  without 

Kumours 

effect.     Your  status  is  definitely  settled." 

"How  about  Aunt  Jane?"  she  inquired. 
"Does  my  relationship  count  for  naught?" 

"Now  you  are  rapidly  approaching  the 
centre  of  things,"  replied  the  young  man. 
"  Miss  Hathaway  is  one  woman  in  a  thou 
sand,  though  somewhat  eccentric.  She  is  the 
venerated  pillar  of  the  community  and  a  con 
stant  attendant  at  church,  which  it  seems  you 
are  not.  Also,  if  you  are  really  her  niece, 
where  is  the  family  resemblance  ?  Why  has 
she  never  spoken  of  you  ?  Why  have  you 
never  been  here  before  ?  Why  are  her  letters 
to  you  sealed  with  red  wax,  bought  especially 
for  the  purpose  ?  Why  does  she  go  away  be 
fore  you  come  ?  Lady  Gwendolen  Hether- 
ington,"  he  demanded,  with  melodramatic 
fervour,  "answer  me  these  things  if  you  can  !  " 

"I  'm  tired,"  she  complained. 

"Delicate  compliment,"  observed  Winfield, 
apparently  to  himself.  "  Here  's  a  log  across 
our  path,  Miss  Thorne;  let  's  sit  down." 

The  budded  maples  arched  over  the  narrow 
path,  and  a  wild  canary,  singing  in  the  sun, 
hopped  from  bough  to  bough.  A  robin's 
cheery  chirp  came  from  another  tree,  and  the 


TRuinours  ot  tbe 


75 


clear  notes  of  a  thrush,  with  a  mottled  breast, 
were  answered  by  another  in  the  gold-green 
aisles  beyond. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  under  his  breath,  "isn't 
this  great  !  " 

The  exquisite  peace  of  the  forest  was  like 
that  of  another  sphere.  "  Yes,"  she  answered, 
softly,  "it  is  beautiful." 

"You're  evading  the  original  subject,"  he 
suggested,  a  little  later. 

"I  have  n't  had  a  chance  to  talk,"  she  ex 
plained.  "You've  done  a  monologue  ever 
since  we  left  the  house,  and  I  listened,  as  be 
comes  inferior  and  subordinate  woman.  I 
have  never  seen  my  venerated  kinswoman, 
and  I  don't  see  how  she  happened  to  think  of 
me.  Nevertheless,  when  she  wrote,  asking 
me  to  take  charge  of  her  house  while  she 
went  to  Europe,  I  gladly  consented,  sight  un 
seen.  When  I  came,  she  was  gone.  I  do  not 
deny  the  short  skirt  and  heavy  shoes,  the 
criticism  of  boiled  coffee,  nor  the  disdain  of 
breakfast  pie.  As  far  as  I  know,  Aunt  Jane  is 
my  only  living  relative." 

"That's  good,"  he  said,  cheerfully;  "I'm 
shy  even  of  an  aunt.  Why  should  n't  the 
orphans  console  one  another?" 


Ube 

•Rumours 

of  tbe 


76 


3la\>enfcer  an& 


Xace 


tRumouts 
of  tbc 


"They  should,"  admitted  Ruth;  "and  you 
are  doing  your  share  nobly." 

"Permit  me  to  return  the  compliment. 
Honestly,  Miss  Thorne,"  he  continued,  seri 
ously,  "  you  have  no  idea  how  much  I  appre 
ciate  your  being  here.  When  I  first  realised 
what  it  meant  to  be  deprived  of  books  and 
papers  for  six  months  at  a  stretch,  it  seemed 
as  if  I  should  go  mad.  Still,  I  suppose  six 
months  is  n't  as  bad  as  forever,  and  I  was 
given  a  choice.  I  don't  want  to  bore  you, 
but  if  you  will  let  me  come  occasionally,  I 
shall  be  very  glad.  I  'm  going  to  try  to  be 
patient,  too,  if  you  'II  help  me — patience  is  n't 
my  long  suit." 

"Indeed  I  will  help  you,"  answered  Ruth, 
impulsively;  "  I  know  how  hard  it  must  be." 

"I'm  not  begging  for  your  sympathy, 
though  I  assure  you  it  is  welcome. "  He  pol 
ished  the  tinted  glasses  with  a  bit  of  chamois, 
and  his  eyes  filled  with  the  mist  of  weakness 
before  he  put  them  on  again.  "So  you've 
never  seen  your  aunt,"  he  said. 

"No — that  pleasure  is  still  in  store  for 
me." 

"They  say  down  at  the  'Widder's'  that 
she  's  a  woman  with  a  romance." 


"Rumours  of  tbe  IPalley 


77 


' '  Tell  me  about  it ! "  exclaimed  Ruth,  eagerly. 

"Little  girls  mustn't  ask  questions,"  he 
remarked,  patronisingly,  and  in  his  most  irri 
tating  manner.  "  Besides,  I  don't  know.  If 
the  'Widder'  knows,  she  won't  tell,  so  it's 
fair  to  suppose  she  does  n't.  Your  relation 
does  queer  things  in  the  attic,  and  every 
Spring,  she  has  an  annual  weep.  I  suppose 
it's  the  house  cleaning,  for  the  rest  of  the  year 
she's  dry-eyed  and  calm." 

' '  I  weep  very  frequently, "  commented  Ruth. 

"  'Tears,  idle  tears — I  wonder  what  they 
mean.' ' 

"They  don't  mean  much,  in  the  case  of  a 
woman." 

"I've  never  seen  many  of  'em,"  returned 
Winfield,  "and  I  don't  want  to.  Even  stage 
tears  go  against  the  grain  with  me.  I  know  that 
the  lady  who  sobs  behind  the  footlights  is  well 
paid  for  it,  but  all  the  same,  it  gives  me  the 
creeps." 

"It's  nothing  serious — really  it  is  n't,  "she 
explained.  "It's  merely  a  safety  valve.  If 
women  could  n't  cry,  they  'd  explode." 

"I  always  supposed  tears  were  signs  of 
sorrow,"  he  said. 

"Far  from  it,"  laughed  Ruth.     "When  I 


tEbc 

fRumrure 
of  tbe 


XavenDer  an& 


Xace 


tRwnoura 
oftbe 


get  very  angry,  I  cry,  and  then  I  get  angrier 
because  I  'm  crying  and  cry  harder." 

"  That  opens  up  a  fearful  possibility.  What 
would  happen  if  you  kept  getting  angrier 
because  you  were  crying  and  crying  harder 
because  you  got  angrier  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  idea,"  she  answered,  with  her 
dark  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  ''but  it 's  a  promis 
ing  field  for  investigation." 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  the  experiment." 

"Don't  worry,"  said  Ruth,  laconically, 
"you  won't." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  Winfield 
began  to  draw  designs  on  the  bare  earth  with 
a  twig.  "Tell  me  about  the  lady  who  is 
considered  crazy,"  he  suggested. 

Ruth  briefly  described  Miss  Ainslie,  dwell 
ing  lovingly  upon  her  beauty  and  charm.  He 
listened  indifferently  at  first,  but  when  she 
told  him  of  the  rugs,  the  real  lace  which 
edged  the  curtains,  and  the  Cloisonne  vase,  he 
became  much  interested. 

"  Take  me  to  see  her  some  day,  won't  you," 
he  asked,  carelessly. 

Ruth's  eyes  met  his  squarely.  "  T  is  n't  a 
'story,'"  she  said,  resentfully,  forgetting  her 
own  temptation. 


IRumours  of  tbe  Waller  79 


The   dull  colour   flooded   his  face.    "You 

Vtamontc 
forget,  Miss  Thome,  that  I  am  forbidden  to      of  tbe 

j  .,     „ 

read  or  write. 

"For  six  months  only,"  answered  Ruth, 
sternly,  "and  there's  always  a  place  for  a 
good  Sunday  special." 

He  changed  the  subject,  but  there  were  fre 
quent  awkward  pauses  and  the  spontaniety 
was  gone.  She  rose,  adjusting  her  belt  in  the 
back,  and  announced  that  it  was  time  for  her 
to  go  home. 

On  their  way  up  the  hill,  she  tried  to  be 
gracious  enough  to  atone  for  her  rudeness, 
but,  though  he  was  politeness  itself,  there 
was  a  difference,  and  she  felt  as  if  she  had  lost 
something.  Distance  lay  between  them  —  a 
cold,  immeasurable  distance,  yet  she  knew 
that  she  had  done  right. 

He  opened  the  gate  for  her,  then  turned  to 
go.  "Won't  you  come  in?"  she  asked, 
conventionally. 

"No,  thank  you  —  some  other  time,  if  I 
may.  I've  had  a  charming  afternoon." 
He  smiled  pleasantly,  and  was  off  down  the 
hill. 

When  she  remembered  that  it  was  a  Win- 
field  who  had  married  Abigail  Weatherby, 


8o 


3Lav>enfcer  an£>  ©ID  Xace 


Ube 

1Rumour» 
ottbe 


she  dismissed  the  matter  as  mere  coincidence, 
and  determined,  at  all  costs,  to  shield  Miss 
Ainslie.  The  vision  of  that  gracious  lady 
came  to  her,  bringing  with  it  a  certain  uplift 
of  soul.  Instantly,  she  was  placed  far  above 
the  petty  concerns  of  earth,  like  one  who 
walks  upon  the  heights,  untroubled,  while 
restless  surges  thunder  at  his  feet. 


8i 


VI 


MISS  THORNE  wrote  an  apology  to  Win- 
field,  and  then  tore  it  up,  thereby  gain 
ing  comparative  peace  of  mind,  for,  with 
some  natures,  expression  is  the  main  thing, 
and  direction  is  but  secondary.  She  was  not 
surprised  because  he  did  not  come;  on  the 
contrary,  she  had  rather  expected  to  be  left  to 
her  own  devices  for  a  time,  but  one  afternoon 
she  dressed  with  unusual  care  and  sat  in  state 
in  the  parlour,  vaguely  expectant.  If  he  in 
tended  to  be  friendly,  it  was  certainly  time  for 
him  to  come  again. 

Hepsey,  passing  through  the  hall,  noted  the 
crisp  white  ribbon  at  her  throat  and  the  bow 
in  her  hair.  "Are  you  expectin'  company, 
Miss  Thorne  ?"  she  asked,  innocently. 

"I  am  expecting  no  one,"  answered  Ruth, 
frigidly,  "  I  am  going  out." 

Feeling  obliged  to    make  her  word  good, 


82 


she  took  the  path  which  led  to  Miss  Ainslie's. 
As  she  entered  the  gate,  she  had  a  glimpse  of 
Winfield,  sitting  by  the  front  window  of  Mrs. 
Pendleton's  brown  house,  in  such  a  dejected 
attitude  that  she  pitied  him.  She  considered 
the  virtuous  emotion  very  praiseworthy,  even 
though  it  was  not  deep  enough  for  her  to  be 
stow  a  cheery  nod  upon  the  gloomy  person 
across  the  way. 

Miss  Ainslie  was  unaffectedly  glad  to  see 
her,  and  Ruth  sank  into  an  easy  chair  with 
something  like  content.  The  atmosphere  of 
the  place  was  insensibly  soothing  and  she  in 
stantly  felt  a  subtle  change.  Miss  Ainslie,  as 
always,  wore  a  lavender  gown,  with  real  lace 
at  the  throat  and  wrists.  Her  white  hair  was 
waved  softly  and  on  the  third  finger  of  her  left 
hand  was  a  ring  of  Roman  gold,  set  with  an 
amethyst  and  two  large  pearls. 

There  was  a  beautiful  serenity  about  her, 
evident  in  every  line  of  her  face  and  figure. 
Time  had  dealt  gently  with  her,  and  except 
on  her  queenly  head  had  left  no  trace  of  his 
passing.  The  delicate  scent  of  the  lavender 
floated  from  her  gown  and  her  laces,  almost  as 
if  it  were  a  part  of  her,  and  brought  visions  of 
an  old-time  garden,  whose  gentle  mistress  was 


6ar£>en 


ever  tranquil  and  content.  As  she  sat  there, 
smiling,  she  might  have  been  Peace  grown 
old. 

"Miss  Ainslie,"  said  Ruth,  suddenly,  "have 
you  ever  had  any  trouble  ?" 

A  shadow  crossed  her  face,  and  then  she 
answered,  patiently,  "Why,  yes — I've  had 
my  share." 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  personal,"  Ruth  ex 
plained,  "  I  was  just  thinking." 

"I  understand,"  said  the  other,  gently. 
Then,  after  a  little,  she  spoke  again: 

"We  all  have  trouble,  deary  —  it  's  part  of 
life;  but  I  believe  that  we  all  share  equally  in 
the  joy  of  the  world.  Allowing  for  tempera 
ment,  I  mean.  Sorrows  that  would  crush 
some  are  lightly  borne  by  others,  and  some 
have  the  gift  of  finding  great  happiness  in 
little  things. 

"Then,  too,  we  never  have  any  more  than 
we  can  bear — nothing  that  has  not  been 
borne  before,  and  bravely  at  that.  There 
is  n't  a  new  sorrow  in  the  world  —  they  're 
all  old  ones  —  but  we  can  all  find  new  happi 
ness  if  we  look  in  the  right  way." 

The  voice  had  a  full  music,  instinct  with 
tenderness,  and  gradually  Ruth's  troubled 


Ube 

Gtarten 


anfc  ©U>  Xacc 


<5ar&en 


spirit  was  eased.  "I  don't  know  what  's 
the  matter  with  me,"  she  said,  meditatively, 
"for  I  'm  not  morbid,  and  I  don't  have  the 
blues  very  often,  but  almost  ever  since  I  Ve 
been  at  Aunt  Jane's  I  've  been  restless  and  dis 
turbed.  I  know  there  's  no  reason  for  it,  but 
I  can't  help  it." 

"  Don't  you  think  that  it 's  because  you  have 
nothing  to  do  ?  You  've  always  been  so 
busy,  and  you  are  n't  used  to  idleness." 

"Perhaps  so.  I  miss  my  work,  but  at  the 
same  time,  I  have  n't  sense  enough  to  do  it." 

' '  Poor  child,  you  're  tired  — too  tired  to  rest. " 

"Yes,  I  am  tired,"  answered  Ruth,  the  tears 
of  nervous  weakness  coming  into  her  eyes. 

"Come  out  into  the  garden." 

Miss  Ainslie  drew  a  fleecy  shawl  over 
her  shoulders  and  led  her  guest  outdoors. 
Though  she  kept  pace  with  the  world  in 
many  other  ways,  it  was  an  old-fashioned 
garden,  with  a  sun-dial  and  an  arbour,  and 
little  paths,  nicely  kept,  that  led  to  the  flower 
beds  and  circled  around  them.  There  were 
no  flowers  as  yet,  except  in  a  bed  of  wild 
violets  under  a  bay  window,  but  tiny  sprigs 
of  green  were  everywhere  eloquent  with 
promise,  and  the  lilacs  were  budded. 


Ube  (Bai'fcen  85 


"That  's  a  snowball  bush  over  there,"  said 

Ostfecn 

Miss  Ainslie,  "and  all  that  corner  of  the  gar 
den  will  be  full  of  roses  in  June.  They  're  old- 
fashioned  roses,  that  I  expect  you  would  n't 
care  for  —  blush  and  cinnamon  and  sweet 
briar  —  but  I  love  them  all.  That  long  row  is 
half  peonies  and  half  bleeding-hearts,  and  I 
have  a  bed  of  columbines  under  a  window  on 
the  other  side  of  the  house.  The  mignon 
ette  and  forget-me-nots  have  a  place  to  them 
selves,  for  I  think  they  belong  together  — 
sweetness  and  memory. 

"There's  going  to  be  lady-slippers  over 
there,"  Miss  Ainslie  went  on,  "and  sweet 
william.  The  porch  is  always  covered  with 
morning-glories  —  I  think  they  're  beautiful  — 
and  in  that  large  bed  I  've  planted  poppies, 
snap-dragon,  and  mangolds.  This  round  one 
is  full  of  larkspur  and  bachelor's  buttons.  I 
have  phlox  and  petunias,  too  —  did  you  ever 
see  a  petunia  seed  ?  " 

Ruth  shook  her  head. 

"It 's  the  tiniest  thing,  smaller  than  a  grain 
of  sand.  When  I  plant  them,  I  always  wonder 
how  those  great,  feathery  petunias  are  coming 
out  of  those  little,  baby  seeds,  but  they  come. 
Over  there  are  things  that  won't  blossom  till 


86 


Xavenfcer  anfc 


SLace 


late  —  asters,  tiger-lilies  and  prince's  feather. 
It 's  going  to  be  a  beautiful  garden,  deary. 
Down  by  the  gate  are  my  sweet  herbs  and 
simples  —  marjoram,  sweet  thyme,  rosemary, 
and  lavender.  I  love  the  lavender,  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  replied  Ruth,  "but  I  've  never 
seen  it  growing." 

"It's  a  little  bush,  with  lavender  flowers 
that  yield  honey,  and  it's  all  sweet  —  flowers, 
leaves,  and  all.  I  expect  you  '11  laugh  at  me, 
but  I  've  planted  sunflowers  and  four-o'clocks 
and  foxglove." 

"I  won't  laugh  —  I  think  it 's  lovely.  What 
do  you  like  best,  Miss  Ainslie  ?  " 

"  I  love  them  all,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  on 
her  lips  and  her  deep,  unfathomable  eyes  fixed 
upon  Ruth,  "but  I  think  the  lavender  comes 
first.  It 's  so  sweet,  and  then  it  has  associa- 


She  paused,  in  confusion,  and  Ruth  went 
on,  quickly:  "I  think  they  all  have  associa 
tions,  and  that 's  why  we  love  them.  I  can't 
bear  red  geraniums  because  a  cross  old  woman 
I  knew  when  I  was  a  child  had  her  yard  full 
of  them,  and  I  shall  always  love  the  lavender," 
she  added,  softly,  "because  it  makes  me  think 
of  you." 


CarOen 


Miss  Ainslie's  cheeks  flushed  and  her  eyes 
shone.  "  Now  we  '11  go  into  the  house,"  she 
said,  "  and  we  '11  have  tea." 

"I  should  n't  stay  any  longer,"  murmured 
Ruth,  following  her,  "I  've  been  here  so  long 
now." 

"T  is  n't  long,"  contradicted  Miss  Ainslie, 
sweetly,  "it 's  been  only  a  very  few  minutes." 

Every  moment,  the  house  and  its  owner 
took  on  new  beauty  and  charm.  Miss  Ainslie 
spread  a  napkin  of  finest  damask  upon  the 
little  mahogany  tea  table,  then  brought  in  a 
silver  teapot  of  quaint  design,  and  two  cups 
of  Japanese  china,  dainty  to  the  point  of  fra 
gility. 

"Why,  Miss  Ainslie,"  exclaimed  Ruth,  in 
surprise,  "where  did  you  get  Royal  Kaga?" 

Miss  Ainslie  was  bending  over  the  table, 
and  the  white  hand  that  held  the  teapot 
trembled  a  little.  "  They  were  a  present  from 
—  a  friend,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice. 

"They're  beautiful,"  said  Ruth,  hurriedly. 

She  had  been  to  many  an  elaborate  affair, 
which  was  down  on  the  social  calendar  as  a 
"tea,"  sometimes  as  reporter  and  often  as 
guest,  but  she  had  found  no  hostess  like  Miss 
Ainslie,  no  china  so  exquisitely  fine,  nor  any 


ttbe 
(Barton 


Xavenfcer  anfc  ©U>  QLace 


tea  like  the  clear,  fragrant  amber  which  was 
poured  into  her  cup. 

"  It  came  from  China,"  said  Miss  Ainslie, 
feeling  the  unspoken  question.  "  I  had  a 
whole  chest  of  it,  but  it  's  almost  all  gone." 

Ruth  was  turning  her  cup  and  consulting 
the  oracle.  "  Here  's  two  people,  a  man  and 
a  woman,  from  a  great  distance,  and,  yes, 
here 's  money,  too.  What  is  there  in  yours  ?  " 

"Nothing,  deary,  and  besides,  it  does  n't 
come  true." 

When  Ruth  finally  aroused  herself  to  go 
home,  the  old  restlessness,  for  the  moment, 
was  gone.  "There  's  a  charm  about  you," 
she  said,  "for  I  feel  as  if  I  could  sleep  a  whole 
week  and  never  wake  at  all." 

"It  's  the  tea,"  smiled  Miss  Ainslie,  "for 
I  'm  a  very  commonplace  body." 

"You,  commonplace?"  repeated  Ruth; 
"why,  there's  nobody  like  you!" 

They  stood  at  the  door  a  few  moments, 
talking  aimlessly,  but  Ruth  was  watching  Miss 
Ainslie's  face,  as  the  sunset  light  lay  caress 
ingly  upon  it.  "I  've  had  a  lovely  time," 
she  said,  taking  another  step  toward  the 
gate. 

"So   have   I  —  you  '11   come   again,  won't 


Ube  OatDen 


you  ?"  The  sweet  voice  was  pleading  now, 
and  Ruth  answered  it  in  her  inmost  soul.  Im 
pulsively,  she  came  back,  threw  her  arms 
around  Miss  Ainslie's  neck,  and  kissed  her. 
"I  love  you,"  she  said,  "don't  you  know  I 
do?" 

The  quick  tears  filled  Miss  Ains'.ie's  eyes  and 
she  smiled  through  the  mist.  "Thank  you, 
deary,"  she  whispered,  "  it 's  a  long  time  since 
any  one  has  kissed  me  —  a  long  time!  " 

Ruth  turned  back  at  the  gate,  to  wave  her 
hand,  and  even  at  that  distance,  saw  that  Miss 
Ainslie  was  very  pale. 

Winfield  was  waiting  for  her,  just  outside 
the  hedge,  but  his  presence  jarred  upon  her 
strangely,  and  her  salutation  was  not  cordial. 

"Is  the  lady  a  friend  of  yours?"  he  in 
quired,  indifferently. 

"  She  is,"  returned  Ruth;  "  I  don't  go  to  see 
my  enemies — do  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  do  or  not,"  he 
said,  looking  at  her  significantly. 

Her  colour  rose,  but  she  replied,  sharply: 
' '  For  the  sake  of  peace,  let  us  assume  that  you 
do  not." 

"Miss  Thorne,"  he  began,  as  they  climbed 


9° 


Ube 
(Bat&cn 


the  hill,  "I  don't  see  why  you  don't  apply 
something  cooling  to  your  feverish  temper. 
You  have  to  live  with  yourself  all  the  time, 
you  know,  and,  occasionally,  it  must  be  very 
difficult.  A  rag,  now,  wet  in  cold  water,  and 
tied  around  your  neck  —  have  you  ever  tried 
that  ?  It  's  said  to  be  very  good." 

"I  have  one  on  now,"  she  answered,  with 
apparent  seriousness,  "only  you  can't  see  it 
under  my  ribbon.  It  's  getting  dry  and  I 
think  I  'd  better  hurry  home  to  wet  it  again, 
don't  you  ?" 

Winfield  laughed  joyously.  "You  '11  do," 
he  said. 

Before  they  were  half  up  the  hill,  they 
were  on  good  terms  again.  "  I  don't  want  to 
go  home,  do  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"Home?  I  have  no  home  —  I  'm  only  a 
poor  working  girl." 

"Oh,  what  would  this  be  with  music!  I 
can  see  it  now !  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  with 
your  kind  permission,  I  will  endeavour  to  give 
you  a  little  song  of  my  own  composition,  en 
titled:  'Why  Has  the  Working  Girl  No 
Home! ' 

"You  have  n't  my  permission,  and  you  're 
a  wretch." 


Ube  (Barren  91 


"  lam,"  he  admitted,  cheerfully,"  moreover, 


I  'm  a  worm  in  the  dust." 

"I  don't  like  worms." 

"  Then  you  '11  have  to  learn." 

Ruth  resented  his  calm  assumption  of  mas 
tery.  "You  're  dreadfully  young,"  she  said; 
"do  you  think  you  '11  ever  grow  up  ? " 

"  Huh!  "  returned  Winfield,  boyishly,  "I  'm 
most  thirty." 

"Really?  I  should  n't  have  thought  you 
were  of  age." 

"  Here 's  a  side  path,  Miss  Thorne,"  he  said, 
abruptly,  "that  seems  to  go  down  into  the 
woods.  Shall  we  explore  ?  It  won't  be  dark 
for  an  hour  yet." 

They  descended  with  some  difficulty,  since 
the  way  was  not  clear,  and  came  into  the 
woods  at  a  point  not  far  from  the  log  across 
the  path.  "  We  must  n't  sit  there  any  more," 
he  observed,  "  or  we  '11  fight.  That 's  where 
we  were  the  other  day,  when  you  attempted 
to  assassinate  me." 

"  I  did  n't!"  exclaimed  Ruth  indignantly. 

"  That  rag  does  seem  to  be  pretty  dry,"  he 
said,  apparently  to  himself.  "  Perhaps,  when 
we  get  to  the  sad  sea,  we  can  wet  it,  and  so 
insure  comparative  calm." 


92 


Xavenfcer  ant> 


2Lace 


She   laughed,  reluctantly.      The    path    led 

G5atl>eti 

around  the  hill  and  down  from  the  highlands 
to  a  narrow  ledge  of  beach  that  lay  under  the 
cliff.  "Do  you  want  to  drown  me?"  she 
asked.  "  It  looks  very  much  as  if  you  in 
tended  to,  for  this  ledge  is  covered  at  high 
tide." 

"You  wrong  me,  Miss  Thorne  ;  I  have 
never  drowned  anything." 

His  answer  was  lost  upon  her,  for  she  stood 
on  the  beach,  under  the  cliff,  looking  at  the 
water.  The  shimmering  turquoise  blue  was 
slowly  changing  to  grey,  and  a  single  sea  gull 
circled  overhead. 

He  made  two  or  three  observations,  to 
which  Ruth  paid  no  attention.  "My  Lady 
Disdain,"  he  said,  with  assumed  anxiety, 
"don't  you  think  we'd  better  go  on?  I 
don't  know  what  time  the  tide  comes  in,  and 
I  never  could  look  your  aunt  in  the  face  if  1 
had  drowned  her  only  relative." 

"Very  well,"  she  replied  carelessly,  "let's 
go  around  the  other  way." 

They  followed  the  beach  until  they  came  to 
the  other  side  of  the  hill,  but  found  no  path 
leading  back  to  civilisation,  though  the  ascent 
could  easily  be  made. 


TIbe  <5arfcen  93 


"People  have  been  here  before,"  he  said; 

Garden 

"here  are  some  initials  cut  into  this  stone. 
What  are  they  ?  I  can't  see." 

Ruth  stooped  to  look  at  the  granite  boulder 
he  indicated.  "J.  H.,"  she  answered,  "and 
J.  B." 

"It's  incomplete,"  he  objected;  "there 
should  be  a  heart  with  an  arrow  run  through  it. " 

"You  can  fix  it  to  suit  yourself,"  Ruth  re 
turned,  coolly,  "I  don't  think  anybody  will 
mind."  She  did  not  hear  his  reply,  for  it 
suddenly  dawned  upon  her  that  "J.  H." 
meant  Jane  Hathaway. 

They  stood  there  in  the  twilight  for  some 
little  time,  watching  the  changing  colours  on 
the  horizon,  and  then  there  was  a  faint  glow 
on  the  water  from  the  cliff  above.  Ruth  went 
out  far  enough  to  see  that  Hepsey  had  placed 
the  lamp  in  the  attic  window. 

"It's  time  to  go,"  she  said,  "inasmuch  as 
we  have  to  go  back  the  way  we  came." 

They  crossed  to  the  other  side  and  went 
back  through  the  woods.  It  was  dusk,  and 
they  walked  rapidly  until  they  came  to  the  log 
across  the  path. 

"  So  your  friend  is  n't  crazy,"  he  said  tenta 
tively,  as  he  tried  to  assist  her  over  it. 


94 


3La\>enfcer  anfc  ©10  Xacc 


Ube 
©arfcen 


"That  depends,"  she  replied,  drawing 
away  from  him;  "you  're  indefinite." 

"Forgot  to  wet  the  rag,  did  n't  we?"  he 
asked.  "I  will  gladly  assume  the  implication, 
however,  if  I  may  be  your  friend." 

"Kind,  I  'm  sure,"  she  answered,  with  dis 
tant  politeness. 

The  path  widened,  and  he  walked  by  her 
side.  "  Have  you  noticed,  Miss  Thorne,  that 
we  have  trouble  every  time  we  approach 
that  seemingly  innocent  barrier  ?  I  think  it 
would  be  better  to  keep  away  from  it,  don't 
you  ?  " 

"Perhaps." 

"What  initials  were  those  on  the  boulder  ? 
J.  H.  and- 

"J.  B." 

"I  thought  so.  'J.  B. '  must  have  had  a 
lot  of  spare  time  at  his  disposal,  for  his  initials 
are  cut  into  the  '  Widder '  Pendleton's  gate 
post  on  the  inner  side,  and  into  an  apple  tree 
in  the  back  yard." 

"  How  interesting!  " 

"Did  you  know  Joe  and  Hepsey  were 
going  out  to-night  ?  " 

"No,  I  didn't  —  they're  not  my  intimate 
friends." 


ZIbe  (Barren  95 


"I  don't  see  how  Joe  expects  to  marry  on 

ffirben 
the  income  derived  from  the  village  chariot." 

"  Have  they  got  that  far  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Winfield,  with  the 
air  of  one  imparting  a  confidence.  "You  see, 
though  1  have  been  in  this  peaceful  village  for 
some  little  time,  I  have  not  yet  arrived  at  the 
fine  distinction  between  'walking  out,'  'settin' 
up,'  and  '  stiddy  comp'ny.'  I  should  infer 
that  'walking  out'  came  first,  for  'settin'  up  ' 
must  take  a  great  deal  more  courage,  but  even 
I,  with  my  vast  intellect,  cannot  at  present 
understand  'stiddy  comp'ny." 

"Joe  takes  her  out  every  Sunday  in  the  car 
riage,"  volunteered  Ruth,  when  the  silence 
became  awkward. 

"In  the  what?" 

"  Carriage  —  have  n't  you  ridden  in  it  ?  " 

"I  have  ridden  in  them,  but  not  in  it.  I 
walked  to  the  '  Widder's,'  but  if  it  is  the  con 
veyance  used  by  travellers,  they  are  both 
'  walking  out '  and  '  settin'  up.'  " 

They  paused  at  the  gate.  "Thank  you  for 
a  pleasant  afternoon,"  said  Winfield.  "I  don't 
have  many  of  them." 

"You  're  welcome,"  returned  Ruth,  con 
veying  the  impression  of  great  distance. 


96 


XavenOec  anfc  <§>U>  Xace 


Winfield  sighed,  then  made  a  last  desperate 
attempt.  "Miss  Thorne, "  he  said,  pleadingly, 
"  please  don't  be  unkind  to  me.  You  have  my 
reason  in  your  hands.  I  can  see  myself  now, 
sitting  on  the  floor,  at  one  end  of  the  danger 
ous  ward.  They  '11  smear  my  fingers  with 
molasses  and  give  me  half  a  dozen  feathers  to 
play  with.  You  '11  come  to  visit  the  asylum, 
sometime,  when  you  're  looking  for  a  special, 
and  at  first,  you  won't  recognise  me.  Then 
I  '11  say:  'Woman,  behold  your  work,'  and 
you  '11  be  miserable  all  the  rest  of  your  life." 

She  laughed  heartily  at  the  distressing  pic 
ture,  and  the  plaintive  tone  of  his  voice  pierced 
her  armour.  "  What 's  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"I  don't  know  —  I  suppose  it's  my  eyes. 
I  'm  horribly  restless  and  discontented,  and 
it  is  n't  my  way." 

Then  Ruth  remembered  her  own  restless 
weeks,  which  seemed  so  long  ago,  and  her 
heart  stirred  with  womanly  sympathy.  "I 
know,"  she  said,  in  a  different  tone,  "I  've 
felt  the  same  way  myself,  almost  ever  since 
I  've  been  here,  until  this  very  afternoon. 
You  're  tired  and  nervous,  and  you  have  n't 
anything  to  do,  but  you  '11  get  over  it." 


Ube  Garfcen 


97 


"I  hope  you  're  right.  I  've  been  getting 
Joe  to  read  the  papers  to  me,  at  a  quarter  a 
sitting,  but  his  pronunciation  is  so  unfamiliar 
that  it  's  hard  to  get  the  drift,  and  the  whole 
thing  exasperated  me  so  that  I  had  to  give  it 
up." 

"  Let  me  read  the  papers  to  you,"  she  said, 
impulsively,  "I  have  n't  seen  one  for  a 
month." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  "I  don't  want 
to  impose  upon  you,"  he  answered  —  "no, 
you  must  n't  do  it." 

Ruth  saw  a  stubborn  pride  that  shrank  from 
the  slightest  dependence,  a  self-reliance  that 
would  not  falter,  but  would  steadfastly  hold 
aloof,  and  she  knew  that  in  one  thing  at  least, 
they  were  kindred. 

"Let  me,"  she  cried,  eagerly;  "I  '11  give 
you  my  eyes  for  a  little  while !  " 

Winfield  caught  her  hand  and  held  it  for 
a  moment,  fully  understanding.  Ruth's  eyes 
looked  up  into  his  —  deep,  dark,  dangerously 
appealing,  and  alight  with  generous  desire. 

His  fingers  unclasped  slowly.  "Yes,  I 
will,"  he  said,  strangely  moved.  "It  's  a 
beautiful  gift  —  in  more  ways  than  one.  You 
are  very  kind — thank  you  —  good  night!  " 


imbo 
Ibeeitatea 


T 


VII 

flDan  Wbo  Ibesitates 


ISN'T  fair,"  said  Winfield  to  himself, 
miserably,  "  no  sir,  't  is  n't  fair!  " 

He  sat  on  the  narrow  piazza  which  belonged 
to  Mrs.  Pendleton's  brown  house,  and  took 
stern  account  of  his  inner  self.  The  morning 
paper  lay  beside  him,  unopened,  though  his 
fingers  itched  to  tear  the  wrapper,  and  his  hat 
was  pulled  far  down  over  his  eyes,  to  shade 
them  from  the  sun. 

"If  I  go  up  there  I'm  going  to  fall  in  love 
with  her,  and  I  know  it!  " 

That  moment  of  revelation  the  night  be 
fore,  when  soul  stood  face  to  face  with 
soul,  had  troubled  him  strangely.  He  knew 
himself  for  a  sentimentalist  where  women 
were  concerned,  but  until  they  stood  at 
the  gate  together,  he  had  thought  himself 
safe.  Like  many  another  man,  on  the 
sunny  side  of  thirty,  he  had  his  ideal 


/ffimn  Wbo  E>esftates 


99 


woman  safely  enshrined  in  his  inner  con 
sciousness. 

She  was  a  pretty  little  thing,  this  dream 
maiden — a  blonde,  with  deep  blue  eyes,  a 
rosy  complexion,  and  a  mouth  like  Cupid's 
bow.  Mentally,  she  was  of  the  clinging  sort, 
for  Winfield  did  not  know  that  in  this  he  was 
out  of  fashion.  She  had  a  dainty,  bird-like 
air  about  her  and  a  high,  sweet  voice — a  most 
adorable  little  woman,  truly,  for  a  man  to 
dream  of  when  business  was  not  too 
pressing. 

In  almost  every  possible  way,  Miss  Thorne 
was  different.  She  was  dark,  and  nearly  as 
tall  as  he  was;  dignified,  self-possessed,  and 
calm,  except  for  flashes  of  temper  and  that 
one  impulsive  moment.  He  had  liked  her, 
found  her  interesting  in  a  tantalising  sort  of 
way,  and  looked  upon  her  as  an  oasis  in  a 
social  desert,  but  that  was  all. 

Of  course,  he  might  leave  the  village,  but 
he  made  a  wry  face  upon  discovering,  through 
laboured  analysis,  that  he  did  n't  want  to  go 
away.  It  was  really  a  charming  spot — hunt 
ing  and  fishing  to  be  had  for  the  asking,  fine 
accommodations  at  Mrs.  Pendleton's,  beau 
tiful  scenery,  bracing  air — in  every  way  it  was 


tlbe  /Ulan 

•Cdbo 
ftcsttatce 


100 


ant) 


2Lace 


Ijcsitates 


just  what  he  needed.  Should  he  let  himself 
be  frightened  out  of  it  by  a  newspaper  woman 
who  lived  at  the  top  of  the  hill  ?  Hardly! 

None  the  less,  he  realised  that  a  man  might 
firmly  believe  in  Affinity,  and,  through  a 
chain  of  unfortunate  circumstances,  become 
the  victim  of  Propinquity.  He  had  known  of 
such  instances  and  was  now  face  to  face  with 
the  dilemma. 

Then  his  face  flooded  with  dull  colour. 
"Darn  it,"  he  said  to  himself,  savagely, 
"what  an  unmitigated  cad  I  am!  All  this  is 
on  the  assumption  that  she 's  likely  to  fall  on 
my  neck  at  any  minute!  Lord!  " 

Yet  there  was  a  certain  comfort  in  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  safe,  even  if  he  should 
fall  in  love  with  Miss  Thorne.  That  disdainful 
young  woman  would  save  him  from  himself, 
undoubtedly,  when  he  reached  the  danger 
point,  if  not  before. 

"  I  wonder  how  a  fellow  would  go  about  it 
anyway,"  he  thought.  "He  could  n't  make  any 
sentimental  remarks,  without  being  instantly 
frozen.  She's  like  the  Boston  girls  we  read 
about  in  the  funny  papers.  He  could  n't  give 
her  things,  either,  except  flowers  or  books,  or 
sweets,  or  music.  She  has  more  books  than  she 


wants,  because  she  reviews  'em  for  the  paper, 
and  I  don't  think  she  's  musical.  She  does  n't 
look  like  the  candy  fiends,  and  I  imagine  she  'd 
pitch  a  box  of  chocolates  into  the  sad  sea,  or 
give  it  to  Hepsey.  There 's  nothing  left  but 
flowers  —  and  I  suppose  she  wouldn't  notice 
'em. 

"A  man  would  have  to  teach  her  to  like 
him,  and,  on  my  soul,  I  don't  know  how  he  'd 
do  that.  Constant  devotion  wouldn't  have 
any  effect — I  doubt  if  she  'd  permit  it;  and  a 
fellow  might  stay  away  from  her  for  six 
months,  without  a  sign  from  her.  I  guess 
she's  cold — no,  she  isn't,  either  —  eyes  and 
temper  like  hers  don't  go  with  the  icebergs. 

"I  —  that  is,  he  couldn't  take  her  out, 
because  there  's  no  place  to  go.  It 's  differ 
ent  in  the  city,  of  course,  but  if  he  happened 
to  meet  her  in  the  country,  as  I  've  done 

"  Might  ask  her  to  drive,  possibly,  if  I  could 
rent  Alfred  and  Mamie  for  a  few  hours  —  no, 
we'd  have  to  have  the  day,  for  anything  over 
two  miles,  and  that  would  n't  be  good  form, 
without  a  chaperone.  Not  that  she  needs 
one  —  she  's  equal  to  any  emergency,  I  fancy. 
Besides,  she  wouldn't  go.  If  I  could  get 
those  two  plugs  up  the  hill,  without  pushing 


IO2 


Xavenfcer  ant>  (SHfc  Xace 


Ube  Shan 

lUlbo 
Ibesttatea 


'em,  gravity  would  take  'em  back,  but  I 
could  n't  ask  her  to  walk  up  the  hill  after 
the  pleasure  excursion  was  over.  I  don't  be 
lieve  a  drive  would  entertain  her. 

"Perhaps  she'd  like  to  fish  —  no,  she 
would  n't,  for  she  said  she  did  n't  like  worms. 
Might  sail  on  the  briny  deep,  except  that 
there  's  no  harbour  within  ten  miles,  and  she 
would  n't  trust  her  fair  young  life  to  me. 
She  'd  be  afraid  I  'd  drown  her. 

"I  suppose  the  main  idea  is  to  cultivate 
a  clinging  dependence,  but  I  'd  like  to  see  the 
man  who  could  woo  any  dependence  from 
Miss  Thorne.  She  holds  her  head  like  a 
thoroughbred  touched  with  the  lash.  She  said 
she  was  afraid  of  Carlton,  but  I  guess  she  was 
just  trying  to  be  pleasant.  I  '11  tell  him  about 
it  —  no,  I  won't,  for  I  said  I  would  n't. 

"I  wish  there  was  some  other  girl  here  for 
me  to  talk  to,  but  I  '11  be  lucky  if  I  can  get 
along  peaceably  with  the  one  already  here. 
I  '11  have  to  discover  all  her  pet  prejudices  and 
be  careful  not  to  walk  on  any  of  'em.  There 's 
that  crazy  woman,  for  instance  —  I  must  n't 
allude  to  her,  even  respectfully,  if  I  'm  to  have 
any  softening  feminine  influence  about  me  be 
fore  I  go  back  to  town.  She  did  n't  seem  to 


Ube  tfban  Wbo  f>esftates 


103 


believe  I  had  any  letter  from  Carlton  —  that's 
what  comes  of  being  careless. 

"  1  should  n't  have  told  her  that  people  said 
she  had  large  feet  and  wore  men's  shoes. 
She's  got  a  pretty  foot;  I  noticed  it  particu 
larly  before  I  spoke.  I  suppose  she  did  n't  like 
that  —  most  girls  wouldn't,  I  guess,  but  she 
took  it  as  a  hunter  takes  a  fence.  Even  after 
that,  she  said  she  'd  help  me  be  patient,  and 
last  night,  when  she  said  she  'd  read  the 
papers  to  me  — she  was  awfully  sweet  to  me 
then. 

"  Perhaps  she  likes  me  a  little  bit  —  I  hope 
so.  She'd  never  care  very  much  for  any 
body,  though  —  she's  too  independent.  She 
wouldn't  even  let  me  help  her  up  the  hill;  I 
don't  know  whether  it  was  independence,  or 
whether  she  did  n't  want  me  to  touch  her.  If 
we  ever  come  to  a  place  where  she  has  to  be 
helped,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  put  gloves  on, 
or  let  her  hold  one  end  of  a  stick  while  I  hang 
on  to  the  other. 

"Still  she  didn't  take  her  hand  away  last 
night,  when  I  grabbed  it.  Probably  she  was 
thinking  about  something  else,  and  did  n't 
notice.  It's  a  particularly  nice  hand  to  hold, 
but  I  '11  never  have  another  chance,  I  guess. 


Ube  flfian 

TKUbo 
Ibcsitates 


IO4 


%a\>enfcer  and 


Xace 


Ube  /Ban 

TObo 
tseaitatea 


"  Carlton  said  she'd  take  the  conceit  out  of 
me,  if  I  had  any.  I  'm  glad  he  did  n't  put  that 
in  the  letter — still  it  does  n't  matter,  since  I  've 
lost  it.  I  wish  I  hadn't,  for  what  he  said 
about  me  was  really  very  nice.  Carlton  is  a 
good  fellow. 

''How  she  lit  on  me  when  I  thought  the 
crazy  person  might  make  a  good  special!  Je 
rusalem!  I  felt  like  the  dust  under  her  feet. 
I  'd  be  glad  to  have  anybody  stand  up  for  me, 
like  that,  but  nobody  ever  will.  She 's  mighty 
pretty  when  she's  angry,  but  I'd  rather  she 
wouldn't  get  huffy  at  me.  She  's  a  tremend 
ously  nice  girl  —  there  's  no  doubt  of  that." 

At  this  juncture,  Joe  came  out  on  the  porch, 
hat  in  hand.  "Mornin',  Mr.  Winfield." 

"  Good  morning,  Joe ;  how  are  your  troubles 
this  morning?" 

"They're  all  right,  I  guess,"  he  replied, 
pleased  with  the  air  of  comradeship.  "  Want 
me  to  read  the  paper  to  yer  ?  " 

"No,  thank  you,  Joe,  not  this  morning." 

The  tone  was  a  dismissal,  but  Joe  lingered, 
shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  "Ain't 
I  done  it  to  suit  yer  ?  " 

"Quite  so,"  returned  Winfield,  serenely. 

"I   don't   mind   doin'   it,"  Joe   continued, 


Ube  /iDan  Mbo  Tbesitates 


after  a  long  silence.  "I  won't  charge  yer 
nothin'." 

"You're  very  kind,  Joe,  but  I  don't  care 
about  it  to-day."  Winfield  rose  and  walked 
to  the  other  end  of  the  porch.  The  apple 
trees  were  in  bloom,  and  every  wandering 
wind  was  laden  with  sweetness.  Even  the 
gnarled  old  tree  in  Miss  Hathaway's  yard, 
that  had  been  out  of  bearing  for  many  a  year, 
had  put  forth  a  bough  of  fragrant  blossoms. 
He  saw  it  from  where  he  stood;  a  mass  of 
pink  and  white  against  the  turquoise  sky,  and 
thought  that  Miss  Thorne  would  make  a 
charming  picture  if  she  stood  beneath  the  tree 
with  the  blown  petals  drifting  around  her. 

He  lingered  upon  the  vision  till  Joe  spoke 
again.  "  Be  you  goin'  up  to  Miss  Hathaway's 
this  mornin'  ?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  Winfield  answered 
somewhat  resentfully,  "why  ?" 

'"Cause  I  would  n't  go  —  not  if  I  was  in 
your  place." 

"  Why  ?  "  he  demanded,  facing  him. 

"Miss  Hathaway's  niece,  she  's  sick." 

"Sick!  "  repeated  Winfield,  in  sudden  fear, 
"  what 's  the  matter!  " 

"  Oh,  't  ain't  nothin'  serious,  I  reckon,  cause 


Ube  Alan 

TOlbo 
fjesitatea 


io6 


Xa\>en&er  anfc  ©ID  Xace 


Ibeettatea 


she  's  up  and  around.  I  've  just  come  from 
there,  and  Hepsey  said  that  all  night  Miss 
Thorne  was  a-cryin',  and  that  this  mornin'  she 
would  n't  eat  no  breakfast.  She  don't  never 
eat  much,  but  this  mornin'  she  would  n't  eat 
nothin',  and  she  would  n't  say  what  was 
wrong  with  her." 

Winfield's  face  plainly  showed  his  concern. 

"  She  would  n't  eat  nothin'  last  night,  nei 
ther,"  Joe  went  on.  "Hepsey  told  me  this 
mornin'  that  she  thought  p'raps  you  and  her 
had  fit.  She 's  your  girl,  ain't  she  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  Winfield,  "she  isn't  my 
girl,  and  we  haven't  'fit.'  I'm  sorry  she 
isn't  well." 

He  paced  back  and  forth  moodily,  while 
Joe  watched  him  in  silence.  "Well,"  he 
said,  at  length,  "  I  reckon  I  '11  be  movin'  along. 
I  just  thought  I  'd  tell  yer." 

There  was  no  answer,  and  Joe  slammed  the 
gate  in  disgust.  "  I  wonder  what 's  the  mat 
ter,"  thought  Winfield.  "  T  is  n't  a  letter,  for 
to-day's  mail  has  n't  come  and  she  was  all 
right  last  night.  Perhaps  she  isn't  ill  —  she 
said  she  cried  when  she  was  angry.  Great 
Heavens!  I  hope  she  is  n't  angry  at  me! 

"She  was  awfully  sweet  to  me  just  before 


Ufoe  /Ifcan  Wbo  toesitates 


107 


I  left  her,"  he  continued,  mentally,  "so  I'm 
not  to  blame.  I  wonder  if  she  's  angry  at 
herself  because  she  offered  to  read  the  papers 
to  me?" 

All  unknowingly  he  had  arrived  at  the  cause 
of  Miss  Thome's  unhappiness.  During  a 
wakeful,  miserable  night,  she  had  wished  a 
thousand  times  that  she  might  take  back 
those  few  impulsive  words. 

"That  must  be  it,"  he  thought,  and  then 
his  face  grew  tender.  "Bless  her  sweet 
heart,"  he  muttered,  apropos  of  nothing,  "I  'm 
not  going  to  make  her  unhappy.  It 's  only 
her  generous  impulse,  and  I  won't  let  her 
think  it 's  any  more." 

The  little  maiden  of  his  dreams  was  but  a 
faint  image  just  then,  as  he  sat  down  to  plan 
a  course  of  action  which  would  assuage  Miss 
Thome's  tears.  A  grey  squirrel  appeared  on 
the  gate  post,  and  sat  there,  calmly,  cracking 
a  nut. 

He  watched  the  little  creature,  absently, 
and  then  strolled  toward  the  gate.  The  squir 
rel  seemed  tame  and  did  not  move  until  he 
was  almost  near  enough  to  touch  it,  and  then 
it  scampered  only  a  little  way. 

"I'll   catch   it,"  Winfield   said  to  himself, 


loS 


Xace 


Ube  flDan 

TO'oo 
Ibesitatea 


"and  take  it  up  to  Miss  Thome.  Perhaps 
she  '11  be  pleased." 

It  was  simple  enough,  apparently,  for  the 
desired  gift  was  always  close  at  hand.  He 
followed  it  across  the  hill,  and  bent  a  score  of 
times  to  pick  it  up,  but  it  was  a  guileful  squir 
rel  and  escaped  with  great  regularity. 

Suddenly,  with  a  flaunt  of  its  bushy  tail 
and  a  daring,  backward  glance,  it  scampered 
under  the  gate  into  Miss  Ainslie's  garden  and 
Winfield  laughed  aloud.  He  had  not  known 
he  was  so  near  the  other  house  and  was  about 
to  retreat  when  something  stopped  him. 

Miss  Ainslie  stood  in  the  path  just  behind 
the  gate,  with  her  face  ghastly  white  and  her 
eyes  wide  with  terror,  trembling  like  a  leaf. 
There  was  a  troubled  silence,  then  she  said, 
thickly,  "Go!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  answered,  hur 
riedly,  "I  did  not  mean  to  frighten  you." 

"Go!"  she  said  again,  her  lips  scarcely 
moving,  "Go!  " 

"Now  what  in  the  mischief  have  I  done;" 
he  thought,  as  he  crept  away,  feeling  like  a 
thief.  "I  understood  that  this  was  a  quiet 
place  and  yet  the  strenuous  life  seems  to  have 
struck  the  village  in  good  earnest. 


flDan  Mbo  Desitates 


109 


"What  am  I,  that  I  should  scare  the  aged 

llClbo 

and  make  the  young  weep  ?  I  've  always  ueattates 
been  considered  harmless,  till  now.  That 
must  be  Miss  Thome's  friend,  whom  I  met 
so  unfortunately  just  now.  She 's  crazy, 
surely,  or  she  would  n't  have  been  afraid  of 
me.  Poor  thing,  perhaps  I  startled  her." 

He  remembered  that  she  had  carried  a 
basket  and  worn  a  pair  of  gardening  gloves. 
Even  though  her  face  was  so  changed,  for  an 
instant  he  had  seen  its  beauty — the  deep  vio 
let  eyes,  fair  skin,  and  regular  features,  sur 
mounted  by  that  wonderful  crown  of  silvered 
hair. 

Conflicting  emotions  swayed  him  as  he 
wended  his  way  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  with 
the  morning  paper  in  his  pocket  as  an  excuse, 
if  he  should  need  one.  When  he  approached 
the  gate,  he  was  seized  by  a  swift  and  unex- 
plainable  fear,  and  would  have  turned  back, 
but  Miss  Hathaway's  door  was  opened. 

Then  the  little  maiden  of  his  dreams 
vanished,  waving  her  hand  in  token  of  eternal 
farewell,  for  as  Ruth  came  down  the  path  be 
tween  the  white  and  purple  plumes  of  lilac,  with 
a  smile  of  welcome  upon  her  lips,  he  knewthat, 
in  all  the  world,  there  was  nothing  half  so  fair. 


VIII 


Summer 

Bags 


Summer 

THE  rumble  of  voices  which  came  from  the 
kitchen  was  not  disturbing,  but  when 
the  rural  lovers  began  to  sit  on  the  piazza, 
directly  under  Ruth's  window,  she  felt  called 
upon  to  remonstrate. 

"Hepsey,"  she  asked,  one  morning,  "why 
don't  you  and  Joe  sit  under  the  trees  at  the 
side  of  the  house  ?  You  can  take  your  chairs 
out  there." 

"Miss  Hathaway  allers  let  us  set  on  the 
piazzer,"  returned  Hepsey,  unmoved. 

"Miss  Hathaway  probably  sleeps  more 
soundly  than  I  do.  You  don't  want  me  to 
hear  everything  you  say,  do  you  ?  " 

Hepsey  shrugged  her  buxom  shoulders. 
"You  can  if  you  like,  mum." 

"But  I  don't  like,"  snapped  Ruth.  "It 
annoys  me." 

There    was    an    interval    of   silence,    then 


Summer 


Hepsey  spoke  again,  of  her  own  accord. 
"If  Joe  and  me  was  to  set  anywheres  but  in 
front,  he  might  see  the  light." 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"Miss  Hathaway,  she  don't  want  it  talked 
of,  and  men  folks  never  can  keep  secrets," 
Hepsey  suggested. 

"You  wouldn't  have  to  tell  him,  would 
you  ?  " 

"Yes'm.  Men  folks  has  got  terrible  curi 
ous  minds.  They  're  all  right  if  they  don't 
know  there  's  nothin',  but  if  they  does,  why 
they  's  keen." 

"Perhaps  you  're  right,  Hepsey,  she  re 
plied,  biting  her  lips.  "  Sit  anywhere  you 
please." 

There  were  times  when  Ruth  was  com 
pelled  to  admit  that  Hepsey's  mental  gifts 
were  fully  equal  to  her  own.  It  was  un 
reasonable  to  suppose,  even  for  an  instant, 
that  Joe  and  Hepsey  had  not  pondered  long 
and  earnestly  upon  the  subject  of  the  light  in 
the  attic  window,  yet  the  argument  was  un 
answerable.  The  matter  had  long  since  lost 
its  interest  for  Ruth  —  perhaps  because  she 
was  too  happy  to  care. 

Winfield  had  easily  acquired   the  habit  of 


Summer 


ant)  <S>R>  3Lace 


Summer  bringing  her  his  morning  papers,  and,  after 
the  first  embarrassment,  Ruth  settled  down 
to  it  in  a  businesslike  way.  Usually,  she  sat 
in  Miss  Hathaway's  sewing  chair,  under  a 
tree  a  little  way  from  the  house,  that  she 
might  at  the  same  time  have  a  general  super 
vision  of  her  domain,  while  Winfield  stretched 
himself  upon  the  grass  at  her  feet.  When 
the  sun  was  bright,  he  wore  his  dark  glasses, 
thereby  gaining  an  unfair  advantage. 

After  breakfast,  which  was  a  movable  feast 
at  the  "  Widder's,"  he  went  after  his  mail  and 
brought  hers  also.  When  he  reached  the 
top  of  the  hill,  she  was  always  waiting  for 
him. 

"This  devotion  is  very  pleasing,"  he  re 
marked,  one  morning. 

"Some  people  are  easily  pleased,"  she 
retorted.  "I  dislike  to  spoil  your  pleasure, 
but  my  stern  regard  for  facts  compels  me  to 
say  that  it  is  not  Mr.  Winfield  I  wait  for,  but 
the  postman." 

"Then  I'll  always  be  your  postman,  for  I 
'  do  admire '  to  be  waited  for,  as  they  have  it 
at  the  'Widder's.'  Of  course,  it's  more  or 
less  of  an  expense  —  this  morning,  for  in 
stance,  I  had  to  dig  up  two  cents  to  get  one 


Summer 


of  your  valuable  manuscripts  out  of  the 
clutches  of  an  interested  government." 

"That's  nothing,"  she  assured  him,  "for  I 
save  you  a  quarter  every  day,  by  taking  Joe's 
place  as  reader  to  Your  Highness,  not  to  men 
tion  the  high  tariff  on  the  Sunday  papers. 
Besides,  the  manuscripts  are  all  in  now." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  that,"  he  replied,  sitting 
down  on  the  piazza.  "Do  you  know,  Miss 
Thorne,  I  think  there  's  a  great  deal  of  joyous 
excitement  attached  to  the  pursuit  of  litera 
ture.  You  send  out  a  story,  fondly  believing 
that  it  is  destined  to  make  you  famous.  Time 
goes  on,  and  you  hear  nothing  from  it.  You 
can  see  your  name  'featured'  on  the  adver 
tisements  of  the  magazine,  and  hear  the  heavy 
tread  of  the  fevered  mob,  on  the  way  to  buy 
up  the  edition.  In  the  roseate  glow  of  your 
fancy,  you  can  see  not  only  your  cheque,  but 
the  things  you  're  going  to  buy  with  it.  Per 
haps  you  tell  your  friends,  cautiously,  that 
you  're  writing  for  such  and  such  a  magazine. 
Before  your  joy  evaporates,  the  thing  comes 
back  from  the  Dead  Letter  Office,  because 
you  had  n't  put  on  enough  postage,  and  they 
would  n't  take  it  in.  Or,  perhaps  they  Ve 
written  '  Return '  on  the  front  page  in  blue 


Summer 


anfc 


Summer 


pencil,  and  all  over  it  are  little,  dark,  four- 
fingered  prints,  where  the  office  pup  has 
walked  on  it." 

"You  seem  to  be  speaking  from  experi 
ence." 

"You  have  guessed  it,  fair  lady,  with  your 
usual  wonderful  insight.  Now  let 's  read  the 
paper  —  do  you  know,  you  read  much  better 
than  Joe  does  ?  " 

"Really?"  Ruth  was  inclined  to  be  sar 
castic,  but  there  was  a  delicate  colour  in  her 
cheeks,  which  pleased  his  aesthetic  sense. 

At  first,  he  had  had  an  insatiable  thirst  for 
everything  in  the  paper,  except  the  adver 
tisements.  The  market  reports  were  sacri 
ficed  inside  of  a  week,  and  the  obituary 
notices,  weather  indications,  and  foreign  de 
spatches  soon  followed.  Later,  the  literary 
features  were  eliminated,  but  the  financial 
and  local  news  died  hard.  By  the  end  of  June, 
however,  he  was  satisfied  with  the  headlines. 

"No,  thank  you,  I  don't  want  to  hear  about 
the  murder,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  Ruth's 
ironical  question,  "nor  yet  the  Summer  styles 
in  sleeves.  All  that  slop  on  the  Woman's 
Page,  about  making  home  happy,  is  not 
suited  to  such  as  I,  and  I  '11  pass." 


Summer 


"There's  a  great  deal  here  that 's  very  in 
teresting,"  returned  Ruth,  "and  I  doubt  if  I 
myself  could  have  crammed  more  solid  know 
ledge  into  one  Woman's  Page.  Here's  a  full 
account  of  a  wealthy  lady's  Summer  home, 
and  a  description  of  a  poor  woman's  garden, 
and  eight  recipes,  and  half  a  column  on  how 
to  keep  a  husband  at  home  nights,  and  plans 
for  making  a  china  closet  out  of  an  old  book 
case." 

"If  there  's  anything  that  makes  me  dead 
tired,"  remarked  Winfield,  "it's  that  home 
made  furniture  business." 

"For  once,  we  agree,"  answered  Ruth. 
"  I've  read  about  it  till  I'm  completely  out  of 
patience.  Shirtwaist  boxes  from  soap  boxes, 
dressing  tables  from  packing  boxes,  couches 
from  cots,  hall  lamps  from  old  arc  light  globes, 
and  clothes  hampers  from  barrels  —  all  these 
I  endured,  but  the  last  straw  was  a  'trans 
formed  kitchen.' ' 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  begged  Winfield,  who 
was  enjoying  himself  hugely. 

"  The  stove  was  to  be  set  into  the  wall," 
began  Ruth,  "and  surrounded  with  marble 
and  white  tiling,  or,  if  this  was  too  expensive, 
it  was  to  be  hidden  from  view  by  a  screen  of 


Summer 


n6 


%a\>enfcer  anD  ©ID  Xace 


summer  Japanese  silk.  A  nice  oak  settle,  hand  carved, 
which  'the  young  husband  might  make  in  his 
spare  moments,'  was  to  be  placed  in  front  of 
it,  and  there  were  to  be  plate  racks  and 
shelves  on  the  walls,  to  hold  the  rare  china. 
Charming  kitchen!  " 

Her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  eyes  shone 
like  stars.  "You're  an  awfully  funny  girl," 
said  Winfield,  quietly,  "  to  fly  into  a  passion 
over  a  '  transformed  kitchen '  that  you  never 
saw.  Why  don't  you  save  your  temper  for 
real  things  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  meaningly,  and  he  re 
treated  in  good  order.  "  I  think  I  !m  a  tactful 
person,"  he  continued,  hurriedly,  "because  I 
get  on  so  well  with  you.  Most  of  the  time, 
we  're  as  contented  as  two  kittens  in  a  basket." 

"My  dear  Mr.  Winfield,"  returrted  Ruth, 
pleasantly,  "you  're  not  only  tactful,  but 
modest.  I  never  met  a  man  whose  tempera 
ment  so  nearly  approached  the  unassuming 
violet.  I  'm  afraid  you  '11  never  be  ap 
preciated  in  this  world  — you  're  too  good  for 
it.  You  must  learn  to  put  yourself  forward. 
I  expect  it  will  be  a  shock  to  your  sensitive 
nature,  but  it's  got  to  be  done." 

"Thank  you,"  he   laughed.     "I  wish  we 


Summer  Dags 


117 


were  in  town  now,  and  I  'd  begin  to  put  my 
self  forward  by  asking  you  out  to  dinner  and 
afterward  to  the  theatre." 

"Why  don't  you  take  me  out  to  dinner 
here  ?  "  she  asked. 

' '  I  would  n  't  insult  you  by  offering  you  the 
'Widder's'  cooking.  I  mean  a  real  dinner, 
with  striped  ice  cream  at  the  end  of  it." 

"I'll  go,"  she  replied,  "I  can't  resist  the 
blandishments  of  striped  ice  cream." 

"  Thank  you  again;  that  gives  me  courage 
to  speak  of  something  that  has  lain  very  near 
my  heart  for  a  long  time." 

"Yes?"  said  Ruth,  conventionally.  For 
the  moment  she  was  frightened. 

"  I  've  been  thinking  fondly  of  your  chafing- 
dish,  though  I  have  n  't  been  allowed  to  see  it 
yet,  and  I  suppose  there 's  nothing  in  the 
settlement  to  cook  in  it,  is  there  ?  " 

"Nothing  much,  surely." 

"We  might  have  some  stuff  sent  out  from 
the  city,  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"Canned  things?" 

"  Yes  —  anything  that  would  keep." 

Aided  and  abetted  by  Winfield,  she  made 
out  a  list  of  articles  which  were  unknown  to 
the  simple-minded  inhabitants  of  the  village. 


Summer 


n8 


Xa\?enfcer  anfc 


%ace 


Summer 


"I  'II  attend  to  the  financial  part  of  it,"  he 
said,  pocketing  the  list,  "and  then,  my  life 
will  be  in  your  hands." 

After  he  went  away,  Ruth  wished  she 
knew  more  about  the  gentle  art  of  cooking, 
which,  after  all,  is  closely  allied  to  the  other 
one  —  of  making  enemies.  She  decided  to 
dispense  with  Hepsey's  services,  when  Win- 
field  came  up  to  dinner,  and  to  do  everything 
herself. 

She  found  an  old  cook  book  of  Aunt  Jane's 
and  turned  over  its  pages  with  new  interest. 
It  was  in  manuscript  form,  and  seemed  to 
represent  the  culinary  knowledge  of  the  entire 
neighbourhood.  Each  recipe  was  duly  ac 
credited  to  its  original  author,  and  there  were 
many  newspaper  clippings,  from  the  despised 
"Woman's  Page"  in  various  journals. 

Ruth  thought  it  would  be  an  act  of  kind 
ness  to  paste  the  loose  clippings  into  Aunt 
Jane's  book,  and  she  could  look  them  over  as 
she  fastened  them  in.  The  work  progressed 
rapidly,  until  she  found  a  clipping  which  was 
not  a  recipe.  It  was  a  perfunctory  notice  of 
the  death  of  Charles  Winfield,  dated  almost 
eighteen  years  ago. 

She  remembered  the  various  emotions  old 


Summer 


119 


newspapers  had  given  her  when  she  first 
came  to  Aunt  Jane's.  This  was  Abigail 
Weatherby's  husband  —  he  had  survived  her 
by  a  dozen  years.  "I'm  glad  it's  Charles 
Winfield  instead  of  Carl,"  thought  Ruth,  as 
she  put  it  aside,  and  went  on  with  her  work. 

"Pantry's  come,"  announced  Winfield,  a 
few  days  later;  "I  didn't  open  it,  but  I 
think  everything  is  there.  Joe 's  going  to 
bring  it  up." 

"Then  you  can  come  to  dinner  Sunday," 
answered  Ruth,  smiling. 

"  I  '11  be  here,"  returned  Winfield  promptly. 
"What  time  do  we  dine?" 

"  I  don't  know  exactly.  It 's  better  to  wait, 
I  think,  until  Hepsey  goes  out.  She  always 
regards  me  with  more  or  less  suspicion,  and 
it  makes  me  uncomfortable." 

Sunday  afternoon,  the  faithful  Joe  drove  up 
to  the  gate,  and  Hepsey  emerged  from  her 
small  back  room,  like  a  butterfly  from  a 
chrysalis.  She  was  radiant  in  a  brilliant  blue 
silk,  which  was  festooned  at  irregular  inter 
vals  with  white  silk  lace.  Her  hat  was  bend 
ing  beneath  its  burden  of  violets  and  red 
roses,  starred  here  and  there  with  some  un 
happy  buttercups  which  had  survived  the 


XavenDer  anfc  Old  OLace 


summer 


wreck  of  a  previous  millinery  triumph.  Her 
hands  were  encased  in  white  cotton  gloves, 
which  did  not  fit. 

With  Joe's  assistance,  she  entered  the 
vehicle  and  took  her  place  proudly  on  the 
back  seat,  even  while  he  pleaded  for  her  to 
sit  beside  him. 

"You  know  yourself  that  I  can't  drive 
nothin'  from  the  back  seat,"  he  complained. 

"Nobody  's  askin'  you  to  drive  nothin' 
from  nowhere,"  returned  Hepsey,  scornfully. 
"If  you  can't  take  me  out  like  a  lady,  I  ain't 
a-goin'." 

Ruth  was  dazzled  by  the  magnificence  of 
the  spectacle  and  was  unable  to  take  her  eyes 
away  from  it,  even  after  Joe  had  turned 
around  and  started  down  hill.  She  thought 
Winfield  would  see  them  pass  his  door  and 
time  his  arrival  accordingly,  so  she  was 
startled  when  he  came  up  behind  her  and 
said,  cheerfully: 

"  They  look  like  a  policeman's,  don't 
they  ?  " 

"What  —  who?" 

"Hepsey's  hands  —  did  you  think  I  meant 
yours?" 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ?  " 


Summer  2>a\?s 


121 


"Nearly  thirty  years." 

"That  wasn't  what  I  meant,"  said  Ruth, 
colouring.  "How  long  have  you  been  at 
Aunt  Jane's?" 

' '  Oh,  that 's  different.  When  Joe  went  out 
to  harness  his  fiery  steeds  to  his  imposing 
chariot,  I  went  around  through  the  woods, 
across  the  beach,  climbed  a  vertical  precipice, 
and  came  up  this  side  of  the  hill.  I  had  to 
wait  some  little  time,  but  I  had  a  front  seat 
during  the  show." 

He  brought  out  her  favourite  chair,  placing 
it  under  the  maple  tree,  then  sat  down  near 
her.  "  I  should  think  you  'd  get  some  clothes 
like  Hepsey's,"  he  began.  "  I  '11  wager,  now, 
that  you  have  n't  a  gown  like  that  in  your 
entire  wardrobe." 

"You're  right  —  I  haven't.  The  nearest 
approach  to  it  is  a  tailored  gown,  lined  with 
silk,  which  Hepsey  thinks  I  should  wear 
wrong  side  out." 

"  How  long  will  the  coast  be  clear  ?" 

"Until  nine  o'clock,  I  think.  They  go  to 
church  in  the  evening." 

"It's  half  past  three  now,"  he  observed, 
glancing  at  his  watch.  "  I  had  fried  salt  pork, 
fried  eggs,  and  fried  potatoes  for  breakfast. 


Summer 


3La\>ent>er 


Xace 


Summer 


I  've  renounced  coffee,  for  I  can't  seem  to 
get  used  to  theirs.  For  dinner,  we  had 
round  steak,  fried,  more  fried  potatoes,  and 
boiled  onions.  Dried  apple  pie  for  dessert — I 
think  I  'd  rather  have  had  the  mince  I  refused 
this  morning." 

"I'll  feed  you  at  five  o'clock,"  she  said, 
smiling. 

"That  seems  like  a  long  time,"  he  com 
plained. 

"It  won't,  after  you  begin  to  entertain 
me." 

It  was  after  five  before  either  realised  it. 
"Come  on,"  she  said,  "you  can  sit  in  the 
kitchen  and  watch  me." 

He  professed  great  admiration  while  she 
put  on  one  of  Hepsey's  white  aprons,  and 
when  she  appeared  with  the  chafing-dish,  his 
emotion  was  beyond  speech.  He  was  allowed 
to  open  the  box  and  to  cut  up  some  button 
mushrooms,  while  she  shredded  cold  chicken. 
"  I  'm  getting  hungry  every  minute,"  he  said, 
"and  if  there  is  undue  postponement,  I  fear 
I  shall  assimilate  all  the  raw  material  in  sight 
— including  the  cook." 

Ruth  laughed  happily.  She  was  making 
a  sauce  with  real  cream,  seasoned  delicately 


Summer 


123 


with  paprika  and  celery  salt.  "Now  I  '11  put 
in  the  chicken  and  mushrooms,"  she  said, 
"and  you  can  stir  it  while  I  make  toast." 

They  were  seated  at  the  table  in  the  dining- 
room  and  the  fun  was  at  its  height,  when 
they  became  aware  of  a  presence.  Hepsey 
stood  in  the  door,  apparently  transfixed  with 
surprise,  and  with  disapproval  evident  in 
every  line  of  her  face.  Before  either  could 
speak,  she  was  gone. 

Though  Ruth  was  very  much  annoyed,  the 
incident  seemingly  served  to  accentuate  Win- 
field's  enjoyment.  The  sound  of  wheels  on 
the  gravel  outside  told  them  that  she  was 
continuing  her  excursion. 

"I'm  going  to  discharge  her  to-morrow," 
Ruth  said. 

"You  can't — she  is  in  Miss  Hathaway 's 
service,  not  yours.  Besides,  what  has  she 
done  ?  She  came  back,  probably,  after  some 
thing  she  had  forgotten.  You  have  no 
reasonable  ground  for  discharging  her,  and  I 
think  you  'd  be  more  uncomfortable  if  she 
went  than  if  she  stayed." 

"  Perhaps  you're  right,"  she  admitted. 

"  I  know  how  you  feel  about  it,"  he  went 
on,  "but  I  hope  you  won't  let  her  distress 


124 


%aven£>er  anfc  ©15  Xace 


Summer 


you.  It  does  n't  make  a  bit  of  difference  to 
me;  she's  only  amusing.  Please  don't  bother 
about  it." 

"I  won't,"  said  Ruth,  "that  is,  I  '11  try  not 
to." 

They  piled  the  dishes  in  the  sink,  "as  a 
pleasant  surprise  for  Hepsey,"  he  said,  and  the 
hours  passed  as  if  on  wings.  It  was  almost 
ten  o'clock  before  it  occurred  to  Winfield  that 
his  permanent  abode  was  not  Miss  Hath- 
away's  parlour. 

As  they  stood  at  the  door,  talking,  the  last 
train  came  in.  "Do  you  know,"  said  Win- 
field,  "that  every  night,  just  as  that  train 
comes  in,  your  friend  down  there  puts  a 
candle  in  her  front  window  ?" 

"Well,"  rejoined  Ruth,  sharply,  "what  of 
it  ?  It 's  a  free  country,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"Very.  Untrammelled  press  and  highly 
independent  women.  Good  night,  Miss 
Thorne.  I  '11  be  up  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning." 

She  was  about  to  speak,  but  slammed  the 
door  instead,  and  was  displeased  when  she 
heard  a  smothered  laugh  from  outside. 


125 


IX 

fbmnble  HDeane 


AS  lightly  as  a  rose  petal  upon  the  shimmer 
ing  surface  of  a  stream,  Summer  was 
drifting  away,  but  whither,  no  one  seemed  to 
care.  The  odour  of  printer's  ink  upon  the 
morning  paper  no  longer  aroused  vain  longings 
in  Winfield's  breast,  and  Ruth  had  all  but 
forgotten  her  former  connection  with  the 
newspaper  world. 

By  degrees,  Winfield  had  arranged  a  routine 
which  seemed  admirable.  Until  luncheon 
time,  he  was  with  Ruth  and,  usually,  out  of 
doors,  according  to  prescription.  In  the  after 
noon,  he  went  up  again,  sometimes  staying 
to  dinner,  and,  always,  he  spent  his  evenings 
there. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  me  to  have  my  trunk 
sent  up  here  ?"  he  asked  Ruth,  one  day. 

"  I  had  n't  thought  of  it,"  she  laughed.  "I 
suppose  it  has  n't  seemed  necessary." 


36s 

fjumble 


126 


Xavenfcer  anfc  ©R>  OLace 


"Miss     Hathaway     would     be     pleased, 
•Jbumble  ,  ,        . 

flaeans       would  n  t    she,    if  she   knew   she   had  two 
guests  instead  of  one  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly;  how  could  she  help  it  ?" 
"When  do  you  expect  her  to  return  ?" 
"I  don't  know — I  haven't  heard  a  word 
from  her.     Sometimes  1  feel  a  little  anxious 
about  her."     Ruth  would  have  been   much 
concerned  for  her  relative's  safety,   had  she 
known  that  the  eccentric  lady  had  severed 
herself  from  the  excursion  and  gone  boldly 
into  Italy,  unattended,  and  with  no  knowledge 
of  the  language. 

Hepsey  inquired  daily  for  news  of  Miss 
Hathaway,  but  no  tidings  were  forthcoming. 
She  amused  herself  in  her  leisure  moments  by 
picturing  all  sorts  of  disasters  in  which  her 
mistress  was  doubtless  engulfed,  and  in 
speculating  upon  the  tie  between  Miss  Thorne 
and  Mr.  Winfield. 

More  often  than  not,  it  fell  to  Hepsey  to 
light  the  lamp  in  the  attic  window,  though 
she  did  it  at  Miss  Thome's  direction.  "If  I 
forget  it,  Hepsey,"  she  had  said,  calmly, 
"you  'II  see  to  it,  won't  you ? " 

Trunks,  cedar  chests,  old  newspapers,  and 
long  hidden  letters  were  out  of  Ruth's  pro- 


fmmble  fffi>eans 


127 


vince  now.     Once  in  two  or  three  weeks,  she 

, , .         *  •      i  •        i  j         t:mmble 

went  to  see  Miss  Ainshe,  but  never  stayed 
long,  though  almost  every  day  she  reproached 
herself  for  neglect. 

Winfield's  days  were  filled  with  peace, 
since  he  had  learned  how  to  get  on  with  Miss 
Thorne.  When  she  showed  herself  stubborn 
and  unyielding,  he  retreated  gracefully,  and 
with  a  suggestion  of  amusement,  as  a  courtier 
may  step  aside  gallantly  for  an  angry  lady  to 
pass.  Ruth  felt  his  mental  attitude  and,  even 
though  she  resented  it,  she  was  ashamed. 

Having  found  that  she  could  have  her 
own  way,  she  became  less  anxious  for  it, 
and  several  times  made  small  concessions, 
which  were  apparently  unconscious,  but 
amusing,  nevertheless.  She  had  none  of  the 
wiles  of  the  coquette;  she  was  transparent, 
and  her  friendliness  was  disarming.  If  she 
wanted  Winfield  to  stay  at  home  any  particu 
lar  morning  or  afternoon,  she  told  him  so.  At 
first  he  was  offended,  but  afterward  learned  to 
like  it,  for  she  could  easily  have  instructed 
Hepsey  to  say  that  she  was  out. 

The  pitiless,  unsympathetic  calendar  re 
corded  the  fact  that  July  was  near  its  end, 
and  Ruth  sighed — then  hated  herself  for  it. 


128 


OLavenOer  ant)  ©ID  5Lace 


She  had  grown  accustomed  to  idleness,  and, 
abatis      under  the  circumstances,  liked  it  far  too  well. 

One  morning,  when  she  went  down  to 
breakfast,  Hepsey  was  evidently  perplexed 
about  something,  but  Ruth  took  no  outward 
note  of  it,  knowing  that  it  would  be  revealed 
ere  long. 

"Miss  Thorne,"  she  said,  tentatively,  as 
Ruth  rose  from  the  table. 

"Yes?" 

"Of  course,  Miss  Thorne,  I  reckon  likely 
't  ain't  none  of  my  business,  but  is  Mr.  Winfield 
another  detective,  and  have  you  found  any 
thing  out  yet  ?  " 

Ruth,  inwardly  raging,  forced  herself  to  let 
the  speech  pass  unnoticed,  and  sailed  majest 
ically  out  of  the  room.  She  was  surprised  to 
discover  that  she  could  be  made  so  furiously 
angry  by  so  small  a  thing. 

Winfield  was  coming  up  the  hill  with  the 
mail,  and  she  tried  to  cool  her  hot  cheeks  with 
her  hands.  "Let's  go  down  on  the  side  of 
the  hill,"  she  said,  as  he  gave  her  some  letters 
and  the  paper;  "it's  very  warm  in  the  sun, 
and  I  'd  like  the  sea  breeze." 

They  found  a  comparatively  level  place, 
with  two  trees  to  lean  against,  and,  though 


Ibumblc 


129 


they  were  not  far  from  the  house,  they  were 

....  ,         tmmble 

effectually   screened   by   the    rising    ground. 

Ruth  felt  that  she  could  not  bear  the  sight  of 
Hepsey  just  then. 

After  glancing  at  her  letters  she  began  to 
read  aloud,  with  a  troubled  haste  which  did 
not  escape  him.  "  Here  's  a  man  who  had  a 
little  piece  of  bone  taken  out  of  the  inside  of 
his  skull,"  she  said.  "  Shall  I  read  about  that  ? 
He  seems,  literally,  to  have  had  something  on 
his  mind." 

"  You're  brilliant  this  morning,"  answered 
Winfield,  gravely,  and  she  laughed  hysteri 
cally. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  you  ?"  he  asked. 
"  You  don't  seem  like  yourself." 

"It  isn't  nice  of  you  to  say  that,"  she  re 
torted,  "considering  your  previous  remark." 

There  was  a  rumble  and  a  snort  on  the  road 
and,  welcoming  the  diversion,  he  went  up  to 
reconnoitre.  "Joe's  coming;  is  there  any 
thing  you  want  in  the  village  ?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  wearily,  "there's 
nothing  I  want  —  anywhere." 

"You're  an  exceptional  woman,"  returned 
Winfield,  promptly,  "and  I'd  advise  you  to 
sit  for  your  photograph.  The  papers  would 


130 


3Lace 


like  it — 'Picture  of  the  Only  Woman  Who 
Does  n't  Want  Anything ' —  why,  that  would 
work  off  an  extra  in  about  ten  minutes!  " 

Ruth  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  then 
turned  her  eyes  away.  He  felt  vaguely  un 
comfortable,  and  was  about  to  offer  atone 
ment  when  Joe's  deep  bass  voice  called  out: 
"Hello!" 

"  Hello  yourself! "  came  in  Hepsey's  highest 
tones,  from  the  garden. 

"  Want  anything  to-day  ?  " 

"Nope  !" 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  and  then  Joe 
shouted  again :  ' '  Hepsey !  " 

"Well?" 

"I  should  think  they'd  break  their  vocal 
cords,"  said  Winfield. 

"I  wish  they  would,"  rejoined  Ruth, 
quickly. 

"Come  here!"  yelled  Joe.  "I  want  to 
talk  to  yer." 

"Talk  from  there,"  screamed  Hepsey. 

"Where  's  yer  folks  ?  " 

"D'know." 

"Say,  be  they  courtin'?" 

Hepsey  left  her  work  in  the  garden  and 
came  toward  the  front  of  the  house.  "They 


By  1bumt>le  flDeans 


walk  out  some,"  she  said,  when  she  was  half- 


way  to  the  gate,  "and  they  set  up  a  good 
deal,  and  Miss  Thorne  told  me  she  did  n't 
know  as  she  'd  do  better,  but  you  can't  rightly 
say  they  're  courtin'  'cause  city  ways  ain't  like 
our  'n." 

The  deep  colour  dyed  Ruth's  face  and  her 
hands  twitched  nervously.  Winfield  very 
much  desired  to  talk,  but  could  think  of 
nothing  to  say.  The  situation  was  tense. 

Joe  clucked  to  his  horses.  "So  long,"  he 
said.  "  See  yer  later." 

Ruth  held  her  breath  until  he  passed  them, 
and  then  broke  down.  Her  self  control  was 
quite  gone,  and  she  sobbed  bitterly,  in  grief 
and  shame.  Winfield  tucked  his  handkerchief 
into  her  cold  hands,  not  knowing  what  else 
to  do. 

"Don't!"  he  said,  as  if  he,  too,  had  been 
hurt.  "Ruth,  dear,  don't  cry!  " 

A  new  tenderness  almost  unmanned  him, 
but  he  sat  still  with  his  hands  clenched,  feel 
ing  like  a  brute  because  of  her  tears. 

The  next  few  minutes  seemed  like  an  hour, 
then  Ruth  raised  her  head  and  tried  to  smile. 
"I  expect  you  think  I'm  silly,"  she  said, 
hiding  her  tear  stained  face  again. 


I32 


XavenDer  an& 


Xace 


•ftumble 
ffrcane 


"  No !  "  he  cried,  sharply ;  then,  with  a  catch 
in  his  throat,  he  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Don't!''  she  sobbed,  turning  away  from 
him,  "what  —  what  they  said  —  was  bad 
enough! " 

The  last  words  ended  in  a  rush  of  tears, 
and,  sorely  distressed,  he  began  to  walk  back 
and  forth.  Then  a  bright  idea  came  to  him. 
"  I  '11  be  back  in  a  minute,"  he  said. 

When  he  returned,  he  had  a  tin  dipper, 
freshly  filled  with  cold  water.  "Don't  cry 
any  more,"  he  pleaded,  gently,  "I'm  going 
to  bathe  your  face." 

Ruth  leaned  back  against  the  tree  and  he 
knelt  beside  her.  "Oh,  that  feels  so  good," 
she  said,  gratefully,  as  she  felt  his  cool  fingers 
upon  her  burning  eyes.  In  a  little  while  she 
was  calm  again,  though  her  breast  still  heaved 
with  every  fluttering  breath. 

"You  poor  little  woman,"  he  said,  ten 
derly,  "  you  're  just  as  nervous  as  you  can  be. 
Don't  feel  so  about  it.  Just  suppose  it  was 
somebody  who  was  n't!  " 

"Who  wasn't  what ?"  asked  Ruth,  inno 
cently. 

Winfield  crimsoned  to  the  roots  of  his  hair 
and  hurled  the  dipper  into  the  distance. 


Ibumble 


133 


"What  —  what  —  they  said,"  he  stammered, 
sitting  down  awkwardly.  "Oh,  darn  it!" 
He  kicked  savagely  at  a  root,  and  added,  in 
bitterest  self  accusation,  "I'm  a  chump,  I 
am!  " 

"No  you're  not,"  returned  Ruth,  with 
sweet  shyness,  "you're  nice.  Now  we'll 
read  some  more  of  the  paper." 

He  assumed  a  feverish  interest  in  the  market 
reports,  but  his  thoughts  were  wandering. 
Certainly,  nothing  could  have  been  worse. 
He  felt  as  if  a  bud,  which  he  had  been  long 
and  eagerly  watching,  was  suddenly  torn  open 
by  a  vandal  hand.  When  he  first  touched 
Ruth's  eyes  with  his  finger  tips,  he  had 
trembled  like  a  schoolboy,  and  he  wondered 
if  she  knew  it. 

If  she  did,  she  made  no  sign.  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed,  the  lids  of  her  downcast  eyes 
were  pink,  and  her  voice  had  lost  its  crisp, 
incisive  tones,  but  she  read  rapidly,  without 
comment  or  pause,  until  the  supply  of  news 
gave  out.  Then  she  began  on  the  advertise 
ments,  dreading  the  end  of  her  task  and 
vainly  wishing  for  more  papers,  though  in 
her  heart  there  was  something  sweet,  which, 
even  to  herself,  she  dared  not  name. 


134 


anD  ©R>  Xace 


Tbumblc 


"That'll  do,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "I'm  not 
interested  in  the  '  midsummer  glove  clear 
ing.'  I  meant  to  tell  you  something  when  I 
first  came  —  I  've  got  to  go  away." 

Ruth's  heart  throbbed  painfully,  as  if  some 
cold  hand  held  it  fast.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
politely,  not  recognising  her  own  voice. 

"  It 's  only  for  a  week  —  I  've  got  to  go  to 
the  oculist  and  see  about  some  other  things. 
I  '11  be  back  before  long." 

"I  shall  miss  you,"  she  said,  convention 
ally.  Then  she  saw  that  he  was  going  away 
to  relieve  her  from  the  embarrassment  of  his 
presence,  and  blessed  him  accordingly. 

"  When  are  you  going  ?  "  she  asked. 

"This  afternoon.  I  don't  want  to  go,  but 
it 's  just  as  well  to  have  it  over  with.  Can  I 
do  anything  for  you  in  the  city  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you.  My  wants  are  few  and, 
at  present,  well  supplied." 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  match  something 
for  you  ?  I  thought  women  always  had  pieces 
of  stuff  that  had  to  be  matched  immediately." 

"They  made  you  edit  the  funny  column, 
did  n't  they  ?"  she  asked,  irrelevantly. 

"They  did,  Miss  Thorne,  and,  moreover, 
I  expect  I  '11  have  to  do  it  again." 


Ibumble  /iDeaus 


After  a  little,  they  were  back  on  the  old 
footing,  yet  everything  was  different,  for  there 
was  an  obtruding  self  consciousness  on  either 
side.  "What  time  do  you  go?"  she  asked, 
with  assumed  indifference. 

"Three-fifteen,  I  think,  and  it's  after  one 
now." 

He  walked  back  to  the  house  with  her, 
and,  for  the  second  time  that  day,  Hepsey 
came  out  to  sweep  the  piazza. 

"Good  bye,  Miss  Thorne,"  he  said. 

"Goodbye,  Mr.  Winfield." 

That  was  all,  but  Ruth  looked  up  with  an 
unspoken  question  and  his  eyes  met  hers 
clearly,  with  no  turning  aside.  She  knew  he 
would  come  back  very  soon  and  she  under 
stood  his  answer  —  that  he  had  the  right. 

As  she  entered  the  house,  Hepsey  said, 
pleasantly:  "Has  he  gone  away,  Miss 
Thorne  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  without  emotion. 
She  was  about  to  say  that  she  did  not  care 
for  luncheon,  then  decided  that  she  must 
seem  to  care. 

Still,  it  was  impossible  to  escape  that  keen- 
eyed  observer.  "You  ain't  eatin'  much," 
she  suggested. 


136 


Xaven&er  anfc 


Xace 


Dumblc 


"  I'm  not  very  hungry." 

"  Be  you  sick,  Miss  Thorne  ?" 

"No  —  not  exactly.  I've  been  out  in  the 
sun  and  my  head  aches,"  she  replied,  clutch 
ing  at  the  straw. 

"  Do  you  want  a  wet  rag  ?  " 

Ruth  laughed,  remembering  an  earlier  sug 
gestion  of  Winfield's.  "No,  I  don't  want 
any  wet  rag,  Hepsey,  but  I  '11  go  up  to  my 
room  for  a  little  while,  I  think.  Please  don't 
disturb  me." 

She  locked  her  door,  shutting  out  all  the 
world  from  the  nameless  joy  that  surged  in 
her  heart.  The  mirror  disclosed  flushed, 
feverish  cheeks  and  dark  eyes  that  shone  like 
stars.  "Ruth  Thorne,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"  I'm  ashamed  of  you!  First  you  act  like  a 
fool  and  then  like  a  girl  of  sixteen!" 

Then  her  senses  became  confused  and  the 
objects  in  the  room  circled  around  her  un 
steadily.  "  I'm  tired,"  she  murmured.  Her 
head  sank  drowsily  into  the  lavender  scented 
pillow  and  she  slept  too  soundly  to  take  note 
of  the  three  o'clock  train  leaving  the  station. 
It  was  almost  sunset  when  she  was  aroused 
by  voices  under  her  window. 

"  That  feller  's  gone  home,"  said  Joe. 


y  Dumble  /IDeans 


137 


"Do  tell!"  exclaimed  Hepsey.  "Did  he 
pay  his  board?"  *££ 

"Yep,  every  cent.     He  's  a-comin'  back." 

"When?" 

"D'know.  Don't  she  know  ?"  The  em 
phasis  indicated  Miss  Thorne. 

"I  guess  not,"  answered  Hepsey.  "They 
said  good  bye  right  in  front  of  me,  and  there 
wa'n't  nothin'  said  about  it." 

"They  ain't  courtin',  then,"  said  Joe,  after  a 
few  moments  of  painful  thought,  and  Ruth, 
in  her  chamber  above,  laughed  happily  to 
herself. 

"  Mebbe  not,"  rejoined  Hepsey.  "It  ain't 
fer  sech  as  me  to  say  when  there  's  courtin' 
and  when  there  ain't,  after  havin'  gone  well 
nigh  onto  five  year  with  a  country  loafer  what 
ain't  never  said  nothin'."  She  stalked  into 
the  house,  closed  the  door,  and  noisily  bolted 
it.  Joe  stood  there  for  a  moment,  as  one 
struck  dumb,  then  gave  a  long,  low  whistle 
of  astonishment  and  walked  slowly  down  the 
hill. 


138 


JLove 


"A 


X 

%ove  Xetters 

WEEK!"  Ruth  said  to  herself  the  next 
letters  L\ 

morning.      "Seven   long  days!      No 

letter,  because  he  must  n't  write,  no  telegram, 
because  there's  no  office  within  ten  miles  — 
nothing  to  do  but  wait!  " 

When  she  went  down  to  breakfast,  Hepsey 
did  not  seem  to  hear  her  cheery  greeting,  but 
was  twisting  her  apron  and  walking  about 
restlessly.  "Miss  Thorne,"  she  said,  at 
length,  "did  you  ever  get  a  love  letter?" 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,"  laughed  Ruth. 
"Every  girl  gets  love  letters." 

Hepsey  brightened  visibly,  then  inquired, 
with  great  seriousness:  "Can  you  read  writ- 
in',  Miss  Thorne?" 

"That  depends  on  the  writing." 

"Yes'm,  it  does  so.  I  can  read  some 
writin' — I  can  read  Miss  Hathaway's  writin', 
and  some  of  the  furrin  letters  she 's  had,  but 


I  got  some  this  mornin'  I  can't  make  out,  no- 

letters 
now. 

"Where  did  you  find  'writing'  this  morn 
ing  ?  It  's  too  early  for  the  mail,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes'm.  It  was  stuck  under  the  kitchen 
winder."  Hepsey  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  in 
an  effort  to  appear  careless,  and  sighed.  Then 
she  clutched  violently  at  the  front  of  her  blue 
gingham  dress,  immediately  repenting  of  her 
rashness.  Ruth  was  inwardly  amused  but 
asked  no  helpful  questions. 

Finally,  Hepsey  took  the  plunge.  "Would 
you  mind  tryin'  to  make  out  some  writin'  I  've 
got,  Miss  Thorne  ?  " 

"Of  course  not  —  let  me  see  it." 

Hepsey  extracted  a  letter  from  the  inmost 
recesses  of  her  attire  and  stood  expectantly, 
with  her  hands  on  her  hips. 

"Why,  it's  a  love  letter!"  Ruth  exclaimed. 

"Yes'm.  When  you  get  through  readin' 
it  to  yourself,  will  you  read  it  out  loud  ?" 

The  letter,  which  was  written  on  ruled 
note  paper,  bore  every  evidence  of  care  and 
thought.  "Hepsey,"  it  began,  and,  on  the 
line  below,  with  a  great  flourish  under  it, 
"Respected  Miss"  stood,  in  large  capitals. 

"Although  it  is  now  but  a  short  interval," 


140 


%a\?en£>er  anfc  ©10  Xace 


love 
letters 


Ruth  read,  "since  my  delighted  eyes  first 
rested  on  your  beautiful  form  — 

"  Five  year!  "  interjected  Hepsey. 

" yet  I  dare  to  hope  that  you  will  re 
ceive  graciously  what  I  am  about  to  say,  as 
I  am  assured  you  will,  if  you  reciprocate  the 
sentiments  which  you  have  aroused  in  my 
bosom. 

"In  this  short  time,  dear  Miss,  brief  though 
it  is,  yet  it  has  proved  amply  sufficient  for  my 
heart  to  go  out  to  you  in  a  yearning  love 
which  I  have  never  before  felt  for  one  of  your 
sex.  Day  by  day  and  night  by  night  your 
glorious  image  has  followed  me." 

"That's  a  lie,"  interrupted  Hepsey,  "he 
knows  I  never  chased  him  nowheres,  not  even 
when  he  took  that  red-headed  Smith  girl  to 
the  Sunday-school  picnic  over  to  the  Ridge,  a 
year  ago  come  August." 

"Those  dark  tresses  have  entwined  my 
soul  in  their  silken  meshes,  those  deep  eyes, 
that  have  borrowed  their  colour  from  Heaven's 
cerulean  blue,  and  those  soft  white  hands, 
that  have  never  been  roughened  by  uncon 
genial  toil,  have  been  ever  present  in  my 
dreams." 

Ruth  paused  for  a  moment,  overcome  by  her 


task,  but  Hepsey's  face  was  radiant.     "  Hurry 
up,  Miss  Thorne,"  she  said,  impatiently. 

"In  short,  Dear  Miss,  I  consider  you  the 
most  surpassingly  lovely  of  your  kind,  and  it 
is  with  pride  swelling  in  my  manly  bosom 
that  I  dare  to  ask  so  peerless  a  jewel  for  her 
heart  and  hand. 

"My  parentage,  birth,  and  breeding  are 
probably  known  to  you,  but  should  any 
points  remain  doubtful,  I  will  be  pleased  to 
present  references  as  to  my  character  and 
standing  in  the  community. 

"I  await  with  impatience,  Madam,  your 
favourable  answer  to  my  plea.  Rest  assured 
that  if  you  should  so  honour  me  as  to  accept 
my  proposal,  I  will  endeavour  to  stand  always 
between  you  and  the  hard,  cruel  world,  as 
your  faithful  shield.  I  will  also  endeavour 
constantly  to  give  you  a  happiness  as  great 
as  that  which  will  immediately  flood  my  be 
ing  upon  receipt  of  your  blushing  acceptance. 

"I  remain,  Dear  Miss,  your  devoted  lover 
and  humble  servant, 

"JOSEPH  PENDLETON,  ESQ." 

"My!  My!"  ejaculated  Hepsey.  "Ain't 
that  fine  writin'!  " 


142 


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"It  certainly  is,"  responded  Miss  Thorne, 
keeping  her  face  straight  with  difficulty. 

"Would  you  mind  readin'  it  again  ?  " 

She  found  the  second  recital  much  easier, 
since  she  was  partially  accustomed  to  the 
heavy  punctuation  marks  and  shaded  flour 
ishes.  At  first,  she  had  connected  Winfield 
with  the  effusion,  but  second  thought  placed 
the  blame  where  it  belonged  —  at  the  door  of 
a  "Complete  Letter  Writer." 

"Miss  Thorne,"  said  Hepsey,  hesitating. 

"Yes?" 

"Of  course,  I'd  like  my  answer  to  be  as 
good  writin'  as  his'n." 

"Naturally." 

"  Where  d'  you  s'pose  he  got  all  that  lovely 
grammar?" 

"Grammar  is  a  rare  gift,  Hepsey." 

"Yes'm,  't  is  so.  Miss  Thorne,  do  you 
guess  you  could  write  as  good  as  that  ?  " 

"I'd  be  willing  to  try,"  returned  Ruth, 
with  due  humility. 

Hepsey  thought  painfully  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  "Id'  know  jest  what  I  'd  better  say. 
Now,  last  night,  I  give  Joe  a  hint,  as  you  may 
say,  but  I  would  n't  want  him  to  think  I  'd 
jest  been  a-waitin'  for  him/' 


Xove  Xetters 


143 


"No,  of  course  not." 

"Ain't  it  better  to  keep  him  in  suspense,  as 
you  may  say  ?  " 

"Far  better,  Hepsey;  he'll  think  more  of 
you." 

"Then  I'll  jest  write  that  I'm  willin'  to 
think  it  over,  and  if  you  '11  put  it  on  a  piece  of 
paper  fer  me,  I  '11  write  it  out  with  ink.  I  've 
got  two  sheets  of  paper  jest  like  this,  with 
nice  blue  lines  onto  it,  that  I  've  been  a-savin' 
fer  a  letter,  and  Miss  Hathaway,  she  's  got 
ink." 

Ruth  sat  down  to  compose  an  answer 
which  should  cast  a  shadow  over  the  "  Com 
plete  Letter  Writer."  Her  pencil  flew  over 
the  rough  copy  paper  with  lightning  speed, 
while  Hepsey  stood  by  in  amazement. 

"Listen,"  she  said,  at  length,  "how  do 
you  like  this  ?  " 

"  MR.  JOSEPH  PENDLETON — 

'"Respected  Sir:  Although  your  communi 
cation  of  recent  date  was  a  great  surprise  to 
me,  candour  compels  me  to  confess  that  it 
was  not  entirely  disagreeable.  I  have  ob 
served,  though  with  true  feminine  delicacy, 
that  your  affections  were  inclined  to  settle  in 


love 
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144 


Xavenfcer  anfc 


3Lace 


lore 
letters 


my   direction,    and  have   not    repelled  your 
advances. 

"  Still,  I  do  not  feel  that  as  yet  we  are  suffi 
ciently  acquainted  to  render  immediate  matri 
mony  either  wise  or  desirable,  and  since  the 
suddenness  of  your  proposal  has  in  a  measure 
taken  my  breath  away,  I  must  beg  that  you 
will  allow  me  a  proper  interval  in  which  to 
consider  the  matter,  and,  in  the  meantime, 
think  of  me  simply  as  your  dearest  friend. 

"I  may  add,  in  conclusion,  that  your  char 
acter  and  standing  in  the  community  are  en 
tirely  satisfactory  to  me.  Thanking  you  for 
the  honour  you  have  conferred  upon  me,  be 
lieve  me,  Dear  Sir, 

"  Your  sincere  friend, 

"  HEPSEY." 


"My!"  exclaimed  Hepsey,  with  overmas 
tering  pride;  "ain't  that  beautiful!  It 's  bet 
ter  than  his'n,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"I  wouldn't  say  that,"  Ruth  replied,  with 
proper  modesty,  "but  I  think  it  will  do." 

"Yes'm.  Twill  so.  Your  writin'  ain't 
nothin'  like  Joe's,"  she  continued,  scanning  it 
closely,  "  but  it's  real  pretty."  Then  a  bright 
idea  illuminated  her  countenance.  "Miss 


^Letters 


Thome,  if  you  '11  write  it  out  on  the  note  pa 
per  with  a  pencil,  I  can  go  over  it  with  the 
ink,  and  afterward,  when  it 's  dry,  I  '11  rub  out 
the  pencil.  It  '11  be  my  writin'  then,  but  it  '11 
look  jest  like  yours." 

"All  right,  Hepsey." 

She  found  it  difficult  to  follow  the  lines 
closely,  but  at  length  achieved  a  respectable 
result.  "I'll  take  good  care  of  it,"  Hepsey 
said,  wrapping  the  precious  missive  in  a 
newspaper,  "and  this  afternoon,  when  I  get 
my  work  done  up,  I  '11  fix  it.  Joe  '11  be  sur 
prised,  won't  he?" 

Late  in  the  evening,  when  Hepsey  came  to 
Ruth,  worn  with  the  unaccustomed  labours 
of  correspondence,  and  proudly  displayed  the 
nondescript  epistle,  she  was  compelled  to  ad 
mit  that  unless  Joe  had  superhuman  qualities 
he  would  indeed  "  be  surprised." 

The  next  afternoon  Ruth  went  down  to 
Miss  Ainslie's.  "You've  been  neglecting 
me,  dear,"  said  that  gentle  soul,  as  she 
opened  the  door. 

"I  have  n't  meant  to,"  returned  Ruth,  con 
science  stricken,  as  she  remembered  how 
long  it  had  been  since  the  gate  of  the  old- 


lovc 

letter* 


146  XavenDer  anfc  ©R>  Xace 

fashioned  garden  had   swung  on   its   hinges 

letters 

for  her. 

A  quiet  happiness  had  settled  down  upon 
Ruth  and  the  old  perturbed  spirit  was  gone, 
but  Miss  Ainslie  was  subtly  different.  "I 
feel  as  if  something  was  going  to  happen," 
she  said. 

"  Something  nice  ?  " 

"I  —  don't  know."  The  sweet  face  was 
troubled  and  there  were  fine  lines  about  the 
mouth,  such  as  Ruth  had  never  seen  there 
before. 

"You're  nervous,  Miss  Ainslie  —  it's  my 
turn  to  scold  now." 

"I  never  scolded  you,  did  I  deary?" 

"You  couldn't  scold  anybody  —  you're 
too  sweet.  You  're  not  unhappy,  are  you, 
Miss  Ainslie  ?" 

"I?  Why,  no!  Why  should  I  be  un 
happy  ? "  Her  deep  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
Ruth. 

"I  —  I  didn't  know,"  Ruth  answered,  in 
confusion. 

"I  learned  long  ago,"  said  Miss  Ainslie, 
after  a  little,  "that  we  may  be  happy  or  not, 
just  as  we  choose.  Happiness  is  not  a  cir 
cumstance,  nor  a  set  of  circumstances;  it's 


147 

only  a  light,  and  we  may  keep  it  burning  if 
we  will.  So  many  of  us  are  like  children, 
crying  for  the  moon,  instead  of  playing  con 
tentedly  with  the  few  toys  we  have.  We  're 
always  hoping  for  something,  and  when  it 
does  n't  come  we  fret  and  worry  ;  when  it 
does,  why  there  's  always  something  else 
we  'd  rather  have.  We  deliberately  make 
nearly  all  of  our  unhappiness,  with  our  own 
unreasonable  discontent,  and  nothing  will 
ever  make  us  happy,  deary,  except  the  spirit 
within." 

"But,  Miss  Ainslie,"  Ruth  objected,  "do 
you  really  think  everybody  can  be  happy  ?  " 

"Of  course  —  everybody  who  wishes  to 
be.  Some  people  are  happier  when  they  're 
miserable.  I  don't  mean,  deary,  that  it 's  easy 
for  any  of  us,  and  it 's  harder  for  some  than 
for  others,  all  because  we  never  grow  up. 
We  're  always  children  —  our  playthings  are  a 
little  different,  that 'sail." 

"'Owning  ourselves  forever  children," 
quoted  Ruth,  "'gathering  pebbles  on  a 
boundless  shore.'  " 

"  Yes,  I  was  just  thinking  of  that.  A  little 
girl  breaks  her  doll,  and  though  the  new  one 
may  be  much  prettier,  it  never  wholly  fills 


148 


an&  ©it)  2Lace 


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letters 


the  vacant  place,  and  it  's  that  way  with  a 
woman's  dream."  The  sweet  voice  sank  into 
a  whisper,  followed  by  a  lingering  sigh. 

"Miss  Ainslie,"  said  Ruth,  after  a  pause, 
"did  you  know  my  mother?" 

"No,  I  didn't,  deary  —  I  'm  sorry.  I  saw 
her  once  or  twice,  but  she  went  away,  soon 
after  we  came  here." 

"Never  mind,"  Ruth  said,  hurriedly,  for 
Mrs.  Thome's  family  had  never  forgiven  her 
runaway  marriage. 

"Come  into  the  garden,"  Miss  Ainslie  sug 
gested,  and  Ruth  followed  her,  willingly,  into 
the  cloistered  spot  where  golden  lilies  tinkled, 
thrushes  sang,  and  every  leaf  breathed  peace. 

Miss  Ainslie  gathered  a  bit  of  rosemary, 
crushing  it  between  her  white  fingers. 
"See,"  she  said,  "some  of  us  are  like  that  — 
it  takes  a  blow  to  find  the  sweetness  in  our 
souls.  Some  of  us  need  dry,  hard  places,  like 
the  poppies" — pointing  to  a  mass  of  brilliant 
bloom —  "and  some  of  us  are  always  thorny, 
like  the  cactus,  with  only  once  in  a  while  a 
rosy  star. 

"I've  always  thought  my  flowers  had 
souls,  dear,"  she  went  on  ;  "they  seem  like 
real  people  to  me.  I  've  seen  the  roses  rub- 


Xetters 


149 


bing  their  cheeks  together  as  if  they  loved 
each  other,  and  the  forget-me-nots  are  little 
blue-eyed  children,  half  afraid  of  the  rest. 

"Over  there,  it  always  seems  to  me  as  if 
the  lavender  was  a  little  woman  in  a  green 
dress,  with  a  lavender  bonnet  and  a  white 
kerchief.  She  's  one  of  those  strong,  sweet, 
wholesome  people,  who  always  rest  you,  and 
her  sweetness  lingers  long  after  she  goes 
away.  I  gather  all  the  flowers,  and  every 
leaf,  though  the  flowers  are  sweetest.  I  put 
the  leaves  away  with  my  linen  and  the  flow 
ers  among  my  laces.  I  have  some  beautiful 
lace,  deary." 

"I  know  you  have  —  I've  often  admired 
it." 

"  I  'm  going  to  show  it  to  you  some  day," 
she  said,  with  a  little  quiver  in  her  voice, 
"and  some  other  day,  when  I  can't  wear  it 
any  more,  you  shall  have  some  of  it  for  your 
own." 

"Don't,  Miss  Ainslie,"  cried  Ruth,  the  quick 
tears  coming  to  her  eyes,  "I  don't  want  any 
lace  —  I  want  you!  " 

"  I  know,"  she  answered,  but  there  was  a 
far-away  look  in  her  eyes,  and  something  in 
her  voice  that  sounded  like  a  farewell. 


love 
letters 


anfc  ©Ifc  Xace 


"Miss  Thorne,"  called  Joe  from  the  gate, 
"here's  a  package  for  yer.  It  come  on  the 
train." 

He  waited  until  Ruth  went  to  him  and 
seemed  disappointed  when  she  turned  back 
into  the  garden.  "Say,"  he  shouted,  "is 
Hepsey  to  home?" 

Ruth  was  busy  with  the  string  and  did  not 
hear.  "Oh,  look!"  she  exclaimed,  "what 
roses!" 

"They're  beautiful,  deary.  I  do  not  think 
I  have  ever  seen  such  large  ones.  Do  you 
know  what  they  are  ?" 

"American  Beauties  —  they're  from  Mr. 
Winfield.  He  knows  I  love  them." 

Miss  Ainslie  started  violently.  "From 
whom,  dear  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  strange  tone. 

"Mr.  Winfield  —  he's  going  to  be  on  the 
same  paper  with  me  in  the  Fall.  He  's  here 
for  the  Summer,  on  account  of  his  eyes." 

Miss  Ainslie  was  bending  over  the  lavender. 
"It  is  a  very  common  name,  is  it  not?"  she 
asked. 

"Yes,  quite  common,"  answered  Ruth,  ab 
sently,  taking  the  roses  out  of  the  box. 

"You  must  bring  him  to  see  me  some  time, 
dear;  I  should  like  to  know  him." 


"Thank  you,  Miss  Ainslie,  I  will." 
They  stood  at  the  gate  together,  and  Ruth 
put  a  half  blown  rose  into  her  hand.  "I 
wouldn't  give  it  to  anybody  but  you,"  she 
said,  half  playfully,  and  then  Miss  Ainslie  knew 
her  secret.  She  put  her  hand  on  Ruth's  arm 
and  looked  down  into  her  face,  as  if  there 
was  something  she  must  say. 

"I  don't  forget  the  light,  Miss  Ainslie." 
"I  know,"  she  breathed,  in  answer.     She 
looked  long  and  searchingly  into  Ruth's  eyes, 
then  whispered  brokenly,   "God  bless  you, 
dear.     Good  bye!  " 


152 


Ube 

of  all 
tbe  WHorlfc 


XI 

IRose  of  all  tbe 


HE  did  n't  forget  me!  He  did  n't  forget 
me!  "  Ruth's  heart  sang  in  time 
with  her  step  as  she  went  home.  Late  after 
noon  flooded  all  the  earth  with  gold,  and 
from  the  other  side  of  the  hill  came  the  gentle 
music  of  the  sea. 

The  doors  were  open,  but  there  was  no 
trace  of  Hepsey.  She  put  the  roses  in  her 
water  pitcher,  and  locked  her  door  upon  them 
as  one  hides  a  sacred  joy.  She  went  out 
again,  her  heart  swelling  like  the  throat  of  a 
singing  bird,  and  walked  to  the  brow  of  the 
cliff,  with  every  sense  keenly  alive.  Upon 
the  surface  of  the  ocean  lay  that  deep,  trans 
lucent  blue  which  only  Tadema  has  dared  to 
paint. 

"  I  must  go  down,"  she  murmured. 

Like  a  tawny  ribbon  trailed  upon  the  green, 
the  road  wound  down  the  hill.  She  followed 


IRosc  of  all  tbe  MorlO 


it  until  she  reached  the  side  path  on  the  right, 
and  went  down  into  the  woods.  The  great 
boughs  arched  over  her  head  like  the  nave  of 
a  cathedral,  and  the  Little  People  of  the  Forest, 
in  feathers  and  fur,  scattered  as  she  ap 
proached.  Bright  eyes  peeped  at  her  from 
behind  tree  trunks,  or  the  safe  shelter  of 
branches,  and  rippling  bird  music  ended  in  a 
frightened  chirp. 

"Oh,"  she  said  aloud,  "  don't  be  afraid!  " 
Was  this  love,  she  wondered,  that  lay  upon 
her  eyes  like  the  dew  of  a  Spring  morning, 
that  made  the  air  vocal  with  rapturous  song, 
and  wrought  white  magic  in  her  soul  ?  It 
had  all  the  mystery  and  freshness  of  the 
world's  beginning;  it  was  the  rush  of  wa 
ters  where  sea  and  river  meet,  the  perfume 
of  a  flower,  and  the  far  light  trembling  from  a 
star.  It  was  sunrise  where  there  had  been 
no  day,  the  ecstasy  of  a  thousand  dawns;  a 
new  sun  gleaming  upon  noon.  All  the  joy  of 
the  world  surged  and  beat  in  her  pulses,  till  it 
seemed  that  her  heart  had  wings. 

Sunset  came  upon  the  water,  the  colour 
on  the  horizon  reflecting  soft  iridescence 
upon  the  blue.  Slow  sapphire  surges  broke 
at  her  feet,  tossing  great  pearls  of  spray 


Ubc  'Kosc 

of  all 
tbe  TUHorft 


154 


Xavenfcer  anfc  ©ID  OLace 


Ube  1Rose 
of  all 


against  the  cliff.  Suddenly,  as  if  by  instinct, 
she  turned  —  and  faced  Winfield. 

"Thank  you  for  the  roses,"  she  cried,  with 
her  face  aglow. 

He  gathered  her  into  his  arms.  "  Oh,  my 
Rose  of  All  the  World,"  he  murmured,  "have 
I  found  you  at  last  ?  " 

It  was  almost  dusk  when  they  turned  to  go 
home,  with  their  arms  around  each  other,  as 
if  they  were  the  First  Two,  wandering  through 
the  shaded  groves  of  Paradise,  before  sin  came 
into  the  world. 

"Did  you  think  it  would  be  like  this?" 
she  asked,  shyly. 

"No,  I  did  n't,  darling.  I  thought  it  would 
be  very  prim  and  proper.  I  never  dreamed 
you  'd  let  me  kiss  you  —  yes,  I  did,  too,  but  I 
thought  it  was  too  good  to  be  true." 

"I  had  to  —  to  let  you,"  she  explained, 
crimsoning,  "but  nobody  ever  did  before.  I 
always  thought—  Then  Ruth  hid  her  face 
against  his  shoulder,  in  maidenly  shame. 

When  they  came  to  the  log  across  the  path, 
they  sat  down,  very  close  together.  "You 
said  we  'd  fight  if  we  came  here,"  Ruth  whis 
pered. 


TCose  of  all  tbe 


155 


"We're  not  going  to,  though.  I  want  to 
tell  you  something,  dear,  and  I  have  n't  had 
the  words  for  it  till  now." 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  in  alarm. 

"It's  only  that  I  love  you,  Ruth,"  he  said, 
holding  her  closer,  "and  when  I  've  said  that, 
I've  said  all.  It  is  n't  an  idle  word;  it's  all 
my  life  that  I  give  you,  to  do  with  as  you  will. 
It  is  n't  anything  that 's  apart  from  you,  or  ever 
could  be;  it's  as  much  yours  as  your  hands 
or  eyes  are.  I  did  n't  know  it  for  a  little 
while  — that 's  because  I  was  blind.  To  think 
that  I  should  go  up  to  see  you,  even  that  first 
day  .without  knowing  you  for  my  sweetheart 
— my  wife !  " 

"No,  don't  draw  away  from  me.  You  lit 
tle  wild  bird,  are  you  afraid  of  Love  ?  It 's 
the  sweetest  thing  God  ever  let  a  man  dream 
of,  Ruth  — there's  nothing  like  it  in  all  the 
world.  Look  up,  Sweet  Eyes,  and  say  you 
love  me!" 

Ruth's  head  drooped,  and  he  put  his  hand 
under  her  chin,  turning  her  face  toward  him, 
but  her  eyes  were  downcast  still.  "Say  it, 
darling,"  he  pleaded, 

"I  —  I  can't,"  she  stammered. 

"Why,  dear?" 


TTbe  'Kose 
of  all 


anD  ©15  OLace 


cf  all 
tf-c  TiClorlB 


"Because  —  because  —  you  know." 

"I  want  you  to  say  it,  sweetheart.  Won't 
you?" 

"Sometime,  perhaps." 

"When?" 

"When  —  when  it's  dark." 

"It 's  dark  now." 

"  No  it  is  n't.     How  did  you  know  ?  " 

"How  did  I  know  what,  dear  ?  " 

"That  I— that  I— cared." 

"I  knew  the  day  you  cried.  I  did  n't  know 
myself  until  then,  but  it  all  came  in  a  min 
ute." 

"  I  was  afraid  you  were  going  to  stay  away 
a  whole  week." 

"I  could  n't,  darling  —  I  just  had  to  come." 

"Did  you  see  everybody  you  wanted  to 
see  ?  " 

"I  could  n't  see  anything  but  your  face, 
Ruth,  with  the  tears  on  it.  I  've  got  to  go 
back  to-morrow  and  have  another  try  at  the 
oculist." 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  in  acute  disappoint 
ment. 

"  It 's  the  last  time,  sweetheart;  we  '11  never 
be  separated  again." 

"Never?" 


TIbe  TRose  of  all  tbe  WorlO 


'57 


"  Never  in  all  the  world  —  nor  afterward." 

...  .  ...  of  all 

"I  expect  you  think  I  m  silly,  she  said, 
wiping  her  eyes,  as  they  rose  to  go  home, 
"but  I  don't  want  you  to  go  away." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go,  dearest.  If  you  're 
going  to  cry,  you  '11  have  me  a  raving  maniac. 
I  can't  stand  it,  now." 

"  I  'm  not  going  to,"  she  answered,  smiling 
through  her  tears,  "but  it's  a  blessed  privi 
lege  to  have  a  nice  stiff  collar  and  a  new  tie 
to  cry  on." 

"They're  at  your  service,  dear,  for  any 
thing  but  that.  I  suppose  we  're  engaged 
now,  are  n't  we  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Ruth,  in  a  low  tone; 
"you  have  n't  asked  me  to  marry  you." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  ?  " 

"It's  time,  isn't  it?" 

Winfield  bent  over  and  whispered  to  her. 

"I  must  think  about  it,"  said  Ruth,  very 
gravely,  "  it 's  so  sudden." 

"  Oh,  you  sweet  girl,"  he  laughed,  "are  n't 
you  going  to  give  me  any  encouragement  ?  " 

"  You  've  had  some." 

"I  want  another,"  he  answered,  purposely 
misunderstanding  her,  "and  besides,  it's 
dark  now." 


158 


%a\?enfcer  ant)  ©to  Xace 


TTbc  IKose 

of  all 
tbc  Idorlb 


The  sweet-scented  twilight  still  lingered  on 
the  hillside,  and  a  star  or  two  gleamed 
through  the  open  spaces  above.  A  moment 
later,  Ruth,  in  her  turn,  whispered  to  him.  It 
was  only  a  word  or  two,  but  the  bright-eyed 
robins  who  were  peeping  at  them  from  the 
maple  branches  must  have  observed  that  it 
was  highly  satisfactory. 


XII 

Bribe  ant>  (Broom 

THOUGH  Winfield  had  sternly  determined 
to  go  back  to  town  the  following  day, 
he  did  not  achieve  departure  until  later.  Ruth 
went  to  the  station  with  him,  and  desolation 
came  upon  her  when  the  train  pulled  out,  in 
spite  of  the  new  happiness  in  her  heart. 

She  had  little  time  to  miss  him,  however, 
for,  at  the  end  of  the  week,  and  in  accordance 
with  immemorial  custom,  the  Unexpected 
happened. 

She  was  sitting  at  her  window  one  morn 
ing,  trying  to  sew,  when  the  village  chariot 
stopped  at  the  gate  and  a  lady  descended. 
Joe  stirred  lazily  on  the  front  seat,  but  she 
said,  in  a  clear,  high-pitched  voice:  "You 
need  n't  trouble  yourself,  Joe.  He  '11  carry 
the  things." 

She  came  toward  the  house,  fanning  herself 
with  a  certain  stateliness,  and  carrying  her 
handkerchief  primly,  by  the  exact  centre  of  it. 


159 


anb  ©room 


i6o 


Xavenfcer  an& 


Xace 


Srfte 
an&  Groom 


In  her  wake  was  a  little  old  gentleman,  with  a 
huge  bundle,  surrounded  by  a  shawl-strap,  a 
large  valise,  much  the  worse  for  wear,  a  tele 
scope  basket  which  was  expanded  to  its  full 
height,  and  two  small  parcels.  A  cane  was 
tucked  under  one  arm  and  an  umbrella  under 
the  other.  He  could  scarcely  be  seen  behind 
the  mountain  of  baggage. 

Hepsey  was  already  at  the  door.  "Why, 
Miss  Hathaway!"  she  cried,  in  astonishment. 

"T  ain't  Miss  Hathaway,"  rejoined  the 
visitor,  with  some  asperity,  "it's  Mrs.  Ball, 
and  this  is  my  husband.  Niece  Ruth,  I  pre 
sume,"  she  added,  as  Miss  Thorne  appeared. 
"Ruth,  let  me  introduce  you  to  your  Uncle 
James." 

The  bride  was  of  medium  height  and  rather 
angular.  Her  eyes  were  small,  dark,  and  so 
piercingly  brilliant  that  they  suggested  jet 
beads.  Her  skin  was  dark  and  her  lips  had 
been  habitually  compressed  into  a  straight 
line.  None  the  less,  it  was  the  face  that  Ruth 
had  seen  in  the  ambrotype  at  Miss  Ainslie's, 
with  the  additional  hardness  that  comes  to 
those  who  grow  old  without  love.  Her  bear 
ing  was  that  of  a  brisk,  active  woman,  accus 
tomed  all  her  life  to  obedience  and  respect. 


anO  Groom 


161 


Mr.  Ball  was  two  or  three  inches  shorter 
than  his  wife,  and  had  a  white  beard,  irregu 
larly  streaked  with  brown.  He  was  bald- 
headed  in  front,  had  scant,  reddish  hair  in  the 
back,  and  his  faded  blue  eyes  were  tearful. 
He  had  very  small  feet  and  the  unmistakable 
gait  of  a  sailor.  Though  there  was  no  im 
mediate  resemblance,  Ruth  was  sure  that  he 
was  the  man  whose  picture  was  in  Aunt 
Jane's  treasure  chest  in  the  attic.  The  dare 
devil  look  was  gone,  however,  and  he  was 
merely  a  quiet,  inoffensive  old  gentleman, 
for  whom  life  had  been  none  too  easy. 

"Welcome  to  your  new  home,  James," 
said  his  wife,  in  a  crisp,  businesslike  tone, 
which  but  partially  concealed  a  latent  tender 
ness.  He  smiled,  but  made  no  reply. 

Hepsey  still  stood  in  the  parlour,  in  wide 
mouthed  astonishment,  and  it  was  Ruth's 
good  fortune  to  see  the  glance  which  Mrs. 
Ball  cast  upon  her  offending  maid.  There 
was  no  change  of  expression  except  in  the 
eyes,  but  Hepsey  instantly  understood  that 
she  was  out  of  her  place,  and  retreated  to 
the  kitchen  with  a  flush  upon  her  cheeks, 
which  was  altogether  foreign  to  Ruth's 
experience. 


Srfoe 
an&  ©room 


162 


Xavenfcer  ant> 


&ace 


ant>  Oroom 


"You  can  set  here,  James,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Ball,  "until  I  have  taken  off  my  things." 

The  cherries  on  her  black  straw  bonnet 
were  shaking  on  their  stems  in  a  way  which 
fascinated  Ruth.  "  I'll  take  my  things  out 
of  the  south  room,  Aunty,"  she  hastened  to 
say. 

"You  won't,  neither,"  was  the  unexpected 
answer;  "that's  the  spare  room,  and,  while 
you  stay,  you  '11  stay  there." 

Ruth  was  wondering  what  to  say  to  her 
new  uncle  and  sat  in  awkward  silence  as 
Aunt  Jane  ascended  the  stairs.  Her  step 
sounded  lightly  overhead  and  Mr.  Ball  twirled 
his  thumbs  absently. 

"You  — you  've  come  a  long  way,  have  n't 
you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Yes'm,  a  long  way."  Then,  seemingly 
for  the  first  time,  he  looked  at  her,  and  a 
benevolent  expression  came  upon  his  face. 
'  'You ' ve  got  awful  pretty  hair,  Niece  Ruth, "  he 
observed,  admiringly;  "now  Mis'  Ball,  she 
wears  a  false  front." 

The  lady  of  the  house  returned  at  this  junc 
ture,  with  the  false  front  a  little  askew.  "I 
was  just  a-sayin',"  Mr.  Ball  continued,  "that 
our  niece  is  a  real  pleasant  lookin'  woman." 


:Brioe  ano  (Broom 


163 


"She  's  your  niece  by  marriage,"  his  wife 
replied,  "but  she  ain't  no  real  relative." 

"Niece  by  merriage  is  relative  enough," 
said  Mr.  Ball,  "and  I  say  she's  a  pleasant 
lookin'  woman,  ain't  she,  now?" 

"She'll  do,  I  reckon.  She  resembles  her 
Ma."  Aunt  Jane  looked  at  Ruth,  as  if  pitying 
the  sister  who  had  blindly  followed  the  lead 
ings  of  her  heart  and  had  died  unforgiven. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  let  me  know  you  were 
coming,  Aunt  Jane  ?  "  asked  Ruth.  I  've  been 
looking  for  a  letter  every  day  and  I  under 
stood  you  were  n't  coming  back  until  Oc 
tober." 

"I  trust  I  am  not  unwelcome  in  my  own 
house,"  was  the  somewhat  frigid  response. 

"No  indeed,  Aunty  —  I  hope  you've  had 
a  pleasant  time." 

"We  've  had  a  beautiful  time,  ain't  we, 
James  ?  We  've  been  on  our  honeymoon." 

"  Yes  'm,  we  hev  been  on  our  honeymoon, 
travellin'  over  strange  lands  an'  furrin  wastes 
of  waters.  Mis'  Ball  was  terrible  sea  sick 
comin'  here." 

"In  a  way,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  "we  ain't 
completely  married.  We  was  married  by  a 
heathen  priest  in  a  heathen  country  and  it 


an&  (Broom 


164 


XarenOer  anfc  ©ID  3Lace 


ano  (Broom 


ain't  rightfully  bindin',  but  we  thought  it 
would  do  until  we  could  get  back  here  and 
be  married  by  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  did  n't 
we,  James?" 

"It  has  held,"  he  said,  without  emotion, 
"but  I  reckon  we  will  hev  to  be  merried 
proper." 

"  Likewise  I  have  my  weddin'  dress,"  Aunt 
Jane  went  on,  "what  ain't  never  been  worn. 
It 's  a  beautiful  dress  —  trimmed  with  pearl 
trimmin' " — here  Ruth  felt  the  pangs  of  a 
guilty  conscience —  "and  I  lay  out  to  be  mar 
ried  in  it,  quite  private,  with  you  and  Hepsey 
for  witnesses." 

"Why,  it  's  quite  a  romance,  is  n't  it, 
Aunty?" 

"'T  is  in  a  way,"  interjected  Mr.  Ball, 
"and  in  another  way,  't  ain't." 

"Yes,  Ruth,"  Aunt  Jane  continued,  ignor 
ing  the  interruption,  "  't  is  a  romance  —  a  real 
romance,"  she  repeated,  with  all  the  hard 
lines  in  her  face  softened.  "We  was  en 
gaged  over  thirty-five  year.  James  went  to 
sea  to  make  a  fortin',  so  he  could  give  me 
every  luxury.  It 's  all  writ  out  in  a  letter  I  've 
got  upstairs.  They  's  beautiful  letters,  Ruth, 
and  it 's  come  to  me,  as  I  've  been  settin'  here, 


Bnfce 


<3coom 


165 


that  you  might  make  a  book  out  'n  these  let 
ters  of  James's.  You  write,  don't  you  ?" 

"Why,  yes,  Aunty,  I  write  for  the  papers, 
but  I  've  never  done  a  book." 

"Well,  you'll  never  write  a  book  no  ear 
lier,  and  here  's  all  the  material,  as  you  may 
say,  jest  a-waitin'  for  you  to  copy  it.  I  guess 
there  's  over  a  hundred  letters." 

"But,  Aunty,"  objected  Ruth,  struggling 
with  inward  emotion,  "I  couldn't  sign  my 
name  to  it,  you  know,  unless  I  had  written 
the  letters." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  it  would  n't  be  honest,"  she  an 
swered,  clutching  at  the  straw,  "the  person 
who  wrote  the  letters  would  be  entitled  to 
the  credit — and  the  money,"  she  added,  hope 
fully. 

"Why,  yes,  that's  right.  Do  you  hear, 
James?  It'll  have  to  be  your  book — 'The 
Love  Letters  of  a  Sailor,'  by  James  Ball,  and 
dedicated  in  the  front  '  to  my  dearly  beloved 
wife,  Jane  Ball,  as  was  Jane  Hathaway.'  It  '11 
be  beautiful,  won't  it,  James  ?" 

"Yes  'm,  I  hev  no  doubt  but  what  it  will." 

"Do  you  remember,  James,  how  you  bor- 
rered  a  chisel  from  the  tombstone  man  over 


JDCtDC 

an&  (Broom 


i66 


Xaven&er  an&  ©ID  Xace 


Srioe 
ano  (Broom 


to  the  Ridge,  and  cut  our  names  into  endurin' 
granite  ?" 

"I'd  forgot  that  —  how  come  you  to  re 
member  it  ?  " 

"On  account  of  your  havin'  lost  the  chisel 
and  the  tombstone  man  a-worryin'  me  about 
it  to  this  day.  I  '11  take  you  to  the  place. 
There  's  climbin'  but  it  won't  hurt  us  none, 
though  we  ain't  as  young  as  we  might  be. 
You  says  to  me,  you  says:  'Jane,  darlin',  as 
long  as  them  letters  stays  cut  into  the  ever- 
lastin'  rock,  just  so  long  I  '11  love  you,'  you 
says,  and  they  's  there  still." 

"  Well,  I  'm  here,  too,  ain't  I  ?  "  replied  Mr. 
Ball,  seeming  to  detect  a  covert  reproach.  "  I 
was  allers  a  great  hand  fer  cuttin'." 

"There'll  have  to  be  a  piece  writ  in  the 
end,  Ruth,  explainin'  the  happy  endin'  of  the 
romance.  If  you  can't  do  it  justice,  James  and 
me  can  help — James  was  allers  a  master  hand 
at  writin'.  It  '11  have  to  tell  how  through  the 
long  years  he  has  toiled,  hopin'  against  hope, 
and  for  over  thirty  years  not  darin'  to  write  a 
line  to  the  object  of  his  affections,  not  feelin' 
worthy,  as  you  may  say,  and  how  after  her 
waitin'  faithfully  at  home  and  turnin'  away 
dozens  of  lovers  what  pleaded  violent-like, 


JSrioe  ano  (Broom 


167 


she  finally  went  travellin'  in  furrin  parts  and 
come  upon  her  old  lover  a-keepin'  a  store  in  a 
heathen  land,  a-strugglin'  to  retrieve  disaster 
after  disaster  at  sea,  and  constantly  with- 
standin'  the  blandishments  of  heathen  women 
as  endeavoured  to  wean  him  from  his  faith, 
and  how,  though  very  humble  and  scarcely 
darin'  to  speak,  he  learned  that  she  was  willin' 
and  they  come  a  sailin'  home  together  and 
lived  happily  ever  afterward.  Ain't  that  as 
it  was,  James  ?" 

"Yes  'm,  except  that  there  wa'  n't  no  par 
ticular  disaster  at  sea  and  them  heathen 
women  did  n't  exert  no  blandishments.  They 
was  jest  pleasant  to  an  old  feller,  bless  their 
little  hearts." 

By  some  subtle  mental  process,  Mr.  Ball 
became  aware  that  he  had  made  a  mistake. 
"You  ain't  changed  nothin'  here,  Jane,"  he 
continued,  hurriedly,  "there's  the  haircloth 
sofy  that  we  used  to  set  on  Sunday  evenins' 
after  meetin',  and  the  hair  wreath  with  the 
red  rose  in  it  made  out  of  my  hair  and  the 
white  rose  made  out  of  your  grandmother's 
hair  on  your  father's  side,  and  the  yeller  lily 
made  out  of  the  hair  of  your  Uncle  Jed's 
youngest  boy.  I  disremember  the  rest,  but 


JBrf&e 
ant)  (Broom 


i68 


3La\>enfcer  anfc  ©ID  Xace 


Crfoe 
an6  ©room 


time  was  when  I  could  say  'm  all.  I  never 
see  your  beat  for  makin'  hair  wreaths,  Jane. 
There  ain't  nothin'  gone  but  the  melodeon 
that  used  to  set  by  the  mantel.  What 's  come 
of  the  melodeon  ?" 

"The  melodeon  is  set  away  in  the  attic. 
The  mice  et  out  the  inside." 

"  Did  n't  you  hev  no  cat  ?  " 

"There  ain't  no  cat,  James,  that  could  get 
into  a  melodeon  through  a  mouse  hole,  more 
especially  the  big  maltese  you  gave  me.  I 
kept  that  cat,  James,  as  you  may  say,  all 
these  weary  years.  When  there  was  kittens, 
I  kept  the  one  that  looked  most  like  old 
Malty,  but  of  late  years,  the  cats  has  all  been 
different,  and  the  one  I  buried  jest  afore  I 
sailed  away  was  yeller  and  white  with  black 
and  brown  spots  —  a  kinder  tortoise  shell  — 
that  did  n't  look  nothin'  like  Malty.  You  'd 
never  have  knowed  they  belonged  to  the 
same  family,  but  I  was  sorry  when  she  died, 
on  account  of  her  bein'  the  last  cat." 

Hepsey,  half  frightened,  put  her  head  into 
the  room.  "Dinner's  ready,"  she  shouted, 
hurriedly  shutting  the  door. 

"Give  me  your  arm,  James," said  Mrs.  Ball, 
and  Ruth  followed  them  into  the  dining-room. 


Brifce  anfc  Oroom 


169 


The  retired  sailor  ate  heartily,  casting  occa 
sional  admiring  glances  at  Ruth  and  Hepsey. 
It  was  the  innocent  approval  which  age  be 
stows  upon  youth.  "These  be  the  finest 
biscuit,"  he  said,  "that  I've  had  for  many  a 
day.  I  reckon  you  made  'em,  did  n't  you, 
young  woman  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Hepsey,  twisting  her 
apron. 

The  bride  was  touched  in  a  vulnerable  spot. 

"Hepsey,"  she  said,  decisively,  "when 
your  week  is  up,  you  will  no  longer  be  in 
my  service.  I  am  a-goin'  to  make  a  change." 

Mr.  Ball's  knife  dropped  with  a  sharp  clat 
ter.  "Why,  Mis'  Ball,"  he  said,  reproach 
fully,  "who  air  you  goin'  to  hev  to  do  your 
work?" 

"Don't  let  that  trouble  you,  James,"  she 
answered,  serenely,  "  the  washin'  can  be  put 
out  to  the  Widder  Pendleton,  her  as  was 
Elmiry  Peavey,  and  the  rest  ain't  no  particu 
lar  trouble." 

"Aunty,"  said  Ruth,  "now  that  you've 
come  home  and  everything  is  going  on  nicely, 
I  think  I  'd  better  go  back  to  the  city.  You 
see,  if  I  stay  here,  I  '11  be  interrupting  the 
honeymoon." 


JSrtoe 
an&  (Broom 


170 


©ID  Xace 


J3rtt>e 
anJ>  ©room 


"  No,  no,  Niece  Ruth!  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Ball, 
"you  ain't  interruptin'  no  honeymoon.  It's 
a  great  pleasure  to  your  aunt  and  me  to  hev 
you  here  —  we  likes  pretty  young  things 
around  us,  and  as  long  as  we  hev  a  home, 
you  're  welcome  to  stay  in  it;  ain't  she  Jane  ?" 

"She  has  sense  enough  to  see,  James,  that 
she  is  interruptin'  the  honeymoon,"  replied 
Aunt  Jane,  somewhat  harshly.  "On  account 
of  her  mother  havin'  been  a  Hathaway  be 
fore  marriage,  she  knows  things.  Not  but 
what  you  can  come  some  other  time,  Ruth," 
she  added,  with  belated  hospitality. 

"Thank  you,  Aunty,  I  will.  I  '11  stay 
just  a  day  or  two  longer,  if  you  don't  mind — 
just  until  Mr.  Winfield  comes  back.  I  don't 
know  just  where  to  write  to  him." 

"Mr.  —  who?"  demanded  Aunt  Jane,  look 
ing  at  her  narrowly. 

"  Mr.  Carl  Winfield,"  said  Ruth,  crimsoning 
—"the  man  I  am  going  to  marry."  The 
piercing  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  her. 

"Now  about  the  letters,  Aunty,"  she  went 
on,  in  confusion,  "you  could  help  Uncle 
James  with  the  book  much  better  than  I 
could.  Of  course  it  would  have  to  be  done 
under  your  supervision." 


JSrioe  ano  Groom 


171 


Mrs.  Ball  scrutinized  her  niece  long  and 
carefully.  "You  appear  to  be  tellin'  the 
truth, "  she  said.  ' '  Who  would  best  print  it  ?  " 

"I  think  it  would  be  better  for  you  to 
handle  it  yourself,  Aunty,  and  then  you  and 
Uncle  James  would  have  all  the  profits.  If 
you  let  some  one  else  publish  it  and  sell  it, 
you  'd  have  only  ten  per  cent,  and  even  then, 
you  might  have  to  pay  part  of  the  expenses." 

"  How  much  does  it  cost  to  print  a  book  ?  " 

"That  depends  on  the  book.  Of  course  it 
costs  more  to  print  a  large  one  than  a  small 
one." 

"That  need  n't  make  no  difference,"  said 
Aunt  Jane,  after  long  deliberation.  James  has 
two  hundred  dollars  sewed  up  on  the  inside 
of  the  belt  he  insists  on  wearin',  instead  of 
Christian  suspenders,  ain't  you,  James  ?" 

"Yes  'm,  two  hundred  and  four  dollars  in 
my  belt  and  seventy-six  cents  in  my  pocket." 

"It's  from  his  store,"  Mrs.  Ball  explained. 
"  He  sold  it  to  a  relative  of  one  of  them  hea 
then  women." 

"  It  was  worth  more  'n  three  hundred,"  he 
said  regretfully. 

"Now,  James,  you  know  a  small  store  like 
that  ain't  worth  no  three  hundred  dollars.  I 


JBci&c 
anfc  ©room 


172 


ant)  ©15  Xace 


and  ©room 


would  n't  have  let  you  took  three  hundred, 
'cause  it  wouldn't  be  honest." 

The  arrival  of  a  small  and  battered  trunk 
created  a  welcome  diversion.  "Where's 
your  trunk,  Uncle  James  ?  "  asked  Ruth. 

' '  I  ain't  a  needin'  of  no  trunk, "  he  answered, 
"what  clothes  I've  got  is  on  me,  and  that 
there  valise  has  more  of  my  things  in  it. 
When  my  clothes  wears  out,  I  put  on  new 
ones  and  leave  the  others  for  some  pore  creeter 
what  may  need  'em  worse  'n  me." 

Aunt  Jane  followed  Joe  upstairs,  issuing 
caution  and  direction  at  every  step.  "You 
can  set  outside  now,  Joe  Pendleton,"  she  said, 
"and  see  that  them  hosses  don't  run  away, 
and  as  soon  as  I  get  some  of  my  things  hung 
up  so's  they  won't  wrinkle  no  more,  I  '11  come 
out  and  pay  you." 

Joe  obeyed,  casting  longing  eyes  at  a  bit  of 
blue  gingham  that  was  fluttering  among  the 
currant  bushes  in  the  garden.  Mr.  Ball,  long 
ing  for  conversation  with  his  kind,  went  out 
to  the  gate  and  stood  looking  up  at  him, 
blinking  in  the  bright  sunlight. 

"Young  feller,"  he  said,  "I  reckon  that 
starboard  hoss  is  my  old  mare.  Where  'd  you 
get  it  ?  " 


Brioe  ano  (Broom 


173 


"Over  to  the  Ridge,"  answered  Joe,  "of  a 
feller  named  Johnson." 

"Jest  so — I  reckon  'twas  his  father  I  give 
Nellie  to  when  I  went  away.  She  was  a 
frisky  filly  then  —  she  don't  look  nothin'  like 
that  now." 

"  Mamie  "  turned,  as  if  her  former  master's 
voice  had  stirred  some  old  memory.  "She's 
got  the  evil  eye,"  Mr.  Ball  continued.  "You 
wanter  be  keerful." 

"She's  all  right,  I  guess,"  Joe  replied. 

"Young  feller,"  said  Mr.  Ball  earnestly, 
"  do  you  chaw  terbacker  ?  " 

"  Yep,  but  I  ain't  got  no  more.  I  'm  on  the 
last  hunk." 

Mr.  Ball  stroked  his  stained  beard.  "I 
useter,"  he  said,  reminiscently,  "afore  I  was 
merried." 

Joe  whistled  idly,  still  watching  for  Hepsey. 

"  Young  feller,  "  said  Mr.  Ball,  again, 
"there  's  a  great  deal  of  merryin'  and  givin'  in 
merriage  in  this  here  settlement,  ain't  there  ?  " 

"  Not  so  much  as  there  might  be." 

"  Say,  was  your  mother's  name  Elmiry 
Peavey  ? " 

"  Yes  sir,"  Joe  answered,  much  surprised. 

"Then  you  be  keerful,"  cautioned  Mr.  Ball. 


174 


Xavenfcer  an& 


OLace 


an&  Oroom 


"  Your  boss  has  got  the  evil  eye  and  your 
father,  as  might  hev  been,  allers  had  a  weak 
eye  fer  women."  Joe's  face  was  a  picture  of 
blank  astonishment. 

"I  was  engaged  to  both  of  'em,"  Mr.  Ball 
explained,  "each  one  a-keepin'  of  it  secret, 
and  she  — "  here  he  pointed  his  thumb  sug 
gestively  toward  the  house — "she's  got 
me." 

"  I  'm  going  to  be  married  myself,"  volun 
teered  Joe,  proudly. 

"  Merriage  is  a  fleetin'  show  —  I  would  n't, 
if  I  was  in  your  place.  Merriage  is  a  drag  on 
a  man's  ambitions.  I  set  out  to  own  a 
schooner,  but  I  can't  never  do  it  now,  on 
account  of  bein'  merried.  I  had  a  good  start 
towards  it  —  I  had  a  little  store  all  to  myself, 
what  was  worth  three  or  four  hundred  dollars, 
in  a  sunny  country  where  the  women  folks 
had  soft  voices  and  pretty  ankles  and  was  n't 
above  passin'  jokes  with  an  old  feller  to  cheer 
'im  on  'is  lonely  way." 

Mrs.  Ball  appeared  at  the  upper  window. 
"James,"  she  called,  "you'd  better  come  in 
and  get  your  hat.  Your  bald  spot  will  get  all 
sunburned." 

"  I  guess  I  won't  wait  no  longer,  Miss  Hath- 


3Brioe  ano  (Broom 


'75 


away,"  Joe  shouted,  and,  suiting  the  action  to 
the  word,  turned  around  and  started  down 
hill.  Mr.  Ball,  half  way  up  the  gravelled 
walk,  turned  back  to  smile  at  Joe  with  feeble 
jocularity. 

Hearing  the  familiar  voice,  Hepsey  hastened 
to  the  front  of  the  house,  and  was  about  to 
retreat,  when  Mr.  Ball  stopped  her. 

"Pore  little  darlin',  he  said,  kindly,  noting 
her  tear  stained  face.  "Don't  go  —  wait  a 
minute."  He  fumbled  at  his  belt  and  at  last 
extracted  a  crisp,  new  ten  dollar  bill.  "  Here, 
take  that  and  buy  you  a  ribbon  or  sunthin'  to 
remember  your  lovin'  Uncle  James  by." 

Hepsey's  face  brightened,  and  she  hastily 
concealed  the  bill  in  her  dress.  "  I  ain't  your 
niece,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "  it's  Miss 
Thorne." 

"  That  don't  make  no  difference,"  rejoined 
Mr.  Ball,  generously,  "I'm  willin'  you  should 
be  my  niece  too.  All  pretty  young  things  is 
my  nieces  and  I  loves  'em  all.  Won't  you 
give  your  pore  old  uncle  a  kiss  to  remember 
you  by  ?  " 

Ruth,  who  had  heard  the  last  words,  came 
down  to  the  gravelled  walk.  "Aunt  Jane  is 
coming,"  she  announced,  and  Hepsey  fled. 


Kri&e 
ano  ©room 


i76 


%ace 


When  the  lady  of  the  house  appeared,  Uncle 
James  was  sitting  at  one  end  of  the  piazza. 
and  Ruth  at  the  other,  exchanging  decorous 
commonplaces. 


177 


XIII 

plan* 

HEPSEY  had  been  gone  an  hour  before 
Mrs.  Ball  realised  that  she  had  sent  away 
one  of  the  witnesses  of  her  approaching  wed 
ding.  "It  don't  matter,"  she  said  to  Ruth, 
"  I  guess  there  's  others  to  be  had.  I  've  got 
the  dress  and  the  man  and  one  of  'em  and  I 
have  faith  that  the  other  things  will  come." 

Nevertheless,  the  problem  assumed  undue 
proportions.  After  long  study,  she  decided 
upon  the  minister's  wife.  "If 'twa'nt  that 
the  numskulls  round  here  could  n't  under 
stand  two  weddin's,"  she  said,  "I'd  have  it 
in  the  church,  as  me  and  James  first  planned." 

Preparations  for  the  ceremony  went  for 
ward  with  Aunt  Jane's  customary  decision 
and  briskness.  She  made  a  wedding  cake, 
assisted  by  Mr.  Ball,  and  gathered  all  the 
flowers  in  the  garden.  There  was  something 
pathetic  about  her  pleasure;  it  was  as  though 


178  %ax>enfcer  ant)  ©to  SLace 

plans  a  wedding  had  been  laid  away  in  laven 
der,  not  to  see  the  light  for  more  than  thirty 
years. 

Ruth  was  to  assist  in  dressing  the  bride  and 
then  go  after  the  minister  and  his  wife,  who, 
by  Aunt  Jane's  decree,  were  to  have  no  pre 
vious  warning.  "  'T  ain't  necessary  to  tell 
'em  beforehand,  not  as  I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Ball. 
"  You  must  ask  fust  if  they  're  both  to  home, 
and  if  only  one  of  'em  is  there,  you  'II  have  to 
find  somebody  else.  If  the  minister 's  to 
home  and  his  wife  ain't  gaddin',  he  '11  get 
them  four  dollars  in  James's  belt,  leavin'  an 
even  two  hundred,  or  do  you  think  two  dol 
lars  would  be  enough  for  a  plain  marriage  ?  " 

"  I'd  leave  that  to  Uncle  James,  Aunty." 

"  I  reckon  you  're  right,  Ruth — you  Ve  got 
the  Hathaway  sense." 

The  old  wedding  gown  was  brought  down 
from  the  attic  and  taken  out  of  its  winding 
sheet.  It  had  been  carefully  folded,  but  every 
crease  showed  plainly  and  parts  of  it  had 
changed  in  colour.  Aunt  Jane  put  on  her  best 
"foretop,"  which  was  entirely  dark,  with  no 
softening  grey  hair,  and  was  reserved  for 
occasions  of  high  state.  A  long  brown  curl, 
which  was  hers  by  right  of  purchase,  was 


plans 

pinned  to  the  hard,  uncompromising  twist  at 
the  back  of  her  neck. 

Ruth  helped  her  into  the  gown  and,  as  it 
slipped  over  her  head,  she  inquired,  from  the 
depths  of  it:  "Is  the  front  door  locked  ?" 

"Yes,  Aunty,  and  the  back  door  too." 

"  Did  you  bring  up  the  keys  as  I  told  you 
to?" 

"  Yes,  Aunty,  here  they  are.     Why  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause,  then  Mrs.  Ball  said 
solemnly :  "  I've  read  a  great  deal  about  bride 
grooms  havin'  wanderin'  fits  immediately  be 
fore  weddin's.  Does  my  dress  hike  up  in  the 
back,  Ruth  ?  " 

It  was  a  little  shorter  in  the  back  than  in  the 
front  and  cleared  the  floor  on  all  sides,  since 
she  had  grown  a  little  after  it  was  made,  but 
Ruth  assured  her  that  everything  was  all 
right.  When  they  went  downstairs  together, 
Mr.  Ball  was  sitting  in  the  parlour,  plainly 
nervous. 

"Now  Ruth,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  "you  can 
go  after  the  minister.  My  first  choice  is  Meth- 
odis',  after  that  Baptis'  and  then  Presbyterian. 
I  will  entertain  James  durin'  your  absence." 

Ruth  was  longing  for  fresh  air  and  gladly 
undertook  the  delicate  mission.  Before  she 


ant)  ©l&  3Lace 


plans  was  half  way  down  the  hill,  she  met  Winfield, 
who  had  come  on  the  afternoon  train. 

"You're  just  in  time  to  see  a  wedding," 
she  said,  when  the  first  raptures  had  subsided. 

"  Whose  wedding,  sweetheart  ?    Ours  ?  " 

"Far  from  it,"  answered  Ruth,  laughing. 
"  Come  with  me  and  I  '11  explain." 

She  gave  him  a  vivid  description  of  the 
events  that  had  transpired  during  his  absence, 
and  had  invited  him  to  the  wedding  before  it 
occurred  to  her  that  Aunt  Jane  might  not  be 
pleased. 

"  I  may  be  obliged  to  recall  my  invitation," 
she  said  seriously,  "  I  '11  have  to  ask  Aunty 
about  it.  She  may  not  want  you." 

"That  doesn't  make  any  difference,"  an 
nounced  Winfield,  in  high  spirits,  "  I  'm  a- 
goin'  to  the  wedding  and  I  'm  a-goin'  to  kiss 
the  bride,  if  you'll  let  me." 

Ruth  smothered  a  laugh.  "You  may,  if 
you  want  to,  and  I  won't  be  jealous.  Isn't 
that  sweet  of  me  ?  " 

"  You  're  always  sweet,  dear.  Is  this  the 
abode  of  the  parson  ?" 

The  Methodist  minister  was  at  home,  but 
his  wife  was  not,  and  Ruth  determined  to 
take  Winfield  in  her  place.  The  clergyman 


said  that  he  would  come  immediately,  and, 
as  the  lovers  loitered  up  the  hill,  they  arrived 
at  the  same  time. 

Winfield  was  presented  to  the  bridal  couple, 
but  there  was  no  time  for  conversation,  since 
Aunt  Jane  was  in  a  hurry.  After  the  brief 
ceremony  was  over,  Ruth  said  wickedly: 

"Aunty,  on  the  way  to  the  minister's,  Mr. 
Winfield  told  me  he  was  going  to  kiss  the 
bride.  I  hope  you  don't  mind  ?" 

Winfield  looked  unutterable  things  at  Ruth, 
but  nobly  fulfilled  the  obligation.  Uncle 
James  beamed  upon  Ruth  in  a  way  which  in 
dicated  that  an  attractive  idea  lay  behind  it, 
and  Winfield  created  a  diversion  by  tipping 
over  a  vase  of  flowers.  "He  shan't,"  he 
whispered  to  Ruth,  "I'll  be  darned  if  he 
shall  !  " 

"  Ruth,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  after  a  close  scru 
tiny  of  Winfield,  "if  you'  re  layin'  out  to 
marry  that  awkward  creeter,  what  ain't  ac 
customed  to  a  parlour,  you  'd  better  do  it 
now,  while  him  and  the  minister  are  both 
here." 

Winfield  was  willing,  but  Ruth  said  that 
one  wedding  at  a  time  was  enough  in  any 
family,  and  the  minister,  pledged  to  secrecy, 


1 82  SLavenDer  anfc  <S>lfc  OLace 

piano  took  his  departure.  The  bride  cut  the  wed 
ding  cake  and  each  solemnly  ate  a  piece  of  it. 
It  was  a  sacrament,  rather  than  a  festivity. 

When  the  silence  became  oppressive,  Ruth 
suggested  a  walk. 

"  You  will  set  here,  Niece  Ruth,"  remarked 
Aunt  Jane,  "until  I  have  changed  my  dress." 

Uncle  James  sighed  softly,  as  she  went  up 
stairs.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  I'm  merried  now, 
hard  and  fast,  and  there  ain't  no  help  for  it, 
world  without  end." 

"Cheer  up,  Uncle,"  said  Winfield,  consol 
ingly,  "  it  might  be  worse." 

"  It 's  come  on  me  all  of  a  sudden,"  he  re 
joined.  "I  ain't  had  no  time  to  prepare  for 
it,  as  you  may  say.  Little  did  I  think,  three 
weeks  ago,  as  I  set  in  my  little  store,  what 
was  wuth  four  or  five  hundred  dollars,  that 
before  the  month  was  out,  I  'd  be  merried. 
Me  !  Merried  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  Me,  as  never 
thought  of  sech  !  " 

When  Mrs.  Ball  entered,  clad  in  sombre 
calico,  Ruth,  overcome  by  deep  emotion,  led 
her  lover  into  the  open  air.  "It's  bad  for 
you  to  stay  in  there,  "  she  said  gravely, 
"  when  you  are  destined  to  meet  the  same 
fate." 


plans 

"  I  've  had  time  to  prepare  for  it,"  he  ans 
wered,  "in  fact,  I've  had  more  time  than  I 
want." 

They  wandered  down  the  hillside  with 
aimless  leisure,  and  Ruth  stooped  to  pick  up 
a  large,  grimy  handkerchief,  with  "  C.  W." 
in  the  corner.  "  Here  's  where  we  were  the 
other  morning,"  she  said. 

"Blessed  spot,"  he  responded,  "beautiful 
Hepsey  and  noble  Joe  !  By  what  humble 
means  are  great  destinies  made  evident  ! 
You  have  n't  said  you  were  glad  to  see  me, 
dear." 

"I'm  always  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Win- 
field,"  she  replied  primly. 

' '  Mr.  Winfield  isn't  my  name, "  he  objected, 
taking  her  into  his  arms. 

"  Carl,"  she  whispered  shyly,  to  his  coat 
collar. 

"That  isn't  all  of  it." 

"Carl  —  dear — "  said  Ruth,  with  her  face 
crimson. 

" That's  more  like  it.  Now  let 's  sit  down 
—  I  've  brought  you  something  and  you  have 
three  guesses." 

"  Returned  manuscript  ?  " 

"  No,  you  said  they  were  all  in." 


Xaveufcev  anfc  ©R>  %ace 


"Another  piece  of  Aunt  Jane's  wedding 
cake  ?  " 

"No,  guess  again." 

"  Chocolates  ?" 

"  Who  'd  think  you  were  so  stupid,"  he  said, 
putting  two  fingers  into  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

"  Oh  —  h  !  "  gasped  Ruth,  in  delight. 

"  You  funny  girl,  did  n't  you  expect  an  en 
gagement  ring  ?  Let 's  see  if  it  fits." 

He  slipped  the  gleaming  diamond  on  her 
finger  and  it  fitted  exactly.  "How  did  you 
guess  ?  "  she  asked,  after  a  little. 

"  It  was  n't  wholly  guess  work,  dearest." 
From  another  pocket,  he  drew  a  glove,  of 
grey  suede,  that  belonged  to  Ruth's  left  hand. 

"Where  did  you  get  that?" 

"  By  the  log  across  the  path,  that  first  day, 
when  you  were  so  cross  to  me." 

"  I  was  n't  cross  !  " 

"  Yes  you  were  —  you  were  a  little  fiend." 

"Will  you  forgive  me  ?"  she  pleaded,  lift 
ing  her  face  to  his. 

"Rather  !  "  He  forgave  her  half  a  dozen 
times  before  she  got  away  from  him.  "Now 
let 's  talk  sense,"  she  said. 

"We  can't  —  I  never  expect  to  talk  sense 
again." 


"  Pretty  compliment,  is  n't  it  ?  "  she  asked. 
"It's  like  your  telling  me  I  was  brilliant  and 
then  saying  I  was  n't  at  all  like  myself." 

"Won't  you  forgive  me?"  he  inquired 
significantly. 

"  Some  other  time,"  she  said,  flushing, 
"  now  what  are  we  going  to  do  ?  " 

"Well,"  he  began,  "I  saw  the  oculist,  and 
he  says  that  my  eyes  are  almost  well  again, 
but  that  I  must  n't  use  them  for  two  weeks 
longer.  Then,  I  can  read  or  write  for  two 
hours  every  day,  increasing  gradually  as  long 
as  they  don't  hurt.  By  the  first  of  October, 
he  thinks  I  'II  be  ready  for  work  again.  Carl- 
ton  wants  me  to  report  on  the  morning  of  the 
fifth,  and  he  offers  me  a  better  salary  than  I 
had  on  The  Herald. ' ' 

"That's  good  !" 

"  We  '11  have  to  have  a  flat  in  the  city,  or  a 
little  house  in  the  country,  near  enough  for 
me  to  get  to  the  office." 

"For  us  to  get  to  the  office,"  supplemented 
Ruth. 

"What  do  you  think  you're  going  to  do, 
Miss  Thorne  ?  " 

"Why  —  I'm  going  to  keep  right  on  with 
the  paper,"  she  answered  in  surprise. 


1 86  Xa\?ent>er  ant>  ©lt>  Xace 

plans  "  No  you  're  not,  darling,"  he  said,  putting 

his  arm  around  her.  "Do  you  suppose  I'm 
going  to  have  Carlton  or  any  other  man  giving 
my  wife  an  assignment  ?  You  can't  any  way, 
because  I  've  resigned  your  position  for  you, 
and  your  place  is  already  filled.  Carlton  sent 
his  congratulations  and  said  his  loss  was  my 
gain,  or  something  like  that.  He  takes  all 
the  credit  to  himself." 

"  Why  —  why  —  you  wretch  !  " 

"I'm  not  a  wretch  —  you  said  yourself  I 
was  nice.  Look  here,  Ruth,"  he  went  on,  in 
a  different  tone,  "what  do  you  think  I  am? 
Do  you  think  for  a  minute  that  I  'd  marry  you 
if  I  could  n't  take  care  of  you  ?  " 

"  T  is  n't  that,"  she  replied,  freeing  herself 
from  his  encircling  arm,  "but  I  like  my  work 
and  I  don't  want  to  give  it  up.  Besides  — 
besides — I  thought  you'd  like  to  have  me 
near  you." 

"I  do  want  you  near  me,  sweetheart,  that 
is  n't  the  point.  You  have  the  same  right 
that  I  have  to  any  work  that  is  your  natural 
expression,  but,  in  spite  of  the  advanced  age 
in  which  we  live,  I  can't  help  believing  that 
home  is  the  place  for  a  woman.  I  may  be 
old-fashioned,  but  I  don't  want  my  wife 


plans 

working  down  town  —  I  've  got  too  much 
pride  for  that.  You  have  your  typewriter, 
and  you  can  turn  out  Sunday  specials  by  the 
yard,  if  you  want  to.  Besides,  there  are  all  the 
returned  manuscripts  —  if  you  have  the  time 
and  are  n't  hurried,  there  's  no  reason  why 
you  should  n't  do  work  that  they  can't  afford 
to  refuse." 

Ruth  was  silent,  and  he  laid  his  hand  upon 
hers.  "  You  understand  me,  don't  you,  dear  ? 
God  knows  I  'm  not  asking  you  to  let  your 
soul  rust  out  in  idleness,  and  I  would  n't  have 
you  crave  expression  that  was  denied  you, 
but  I  don't  want  you  to  have  to  work  when 
you  don't  feel  like  it,  nor  be  at  anybody's 
beck  and  call.  I  know  you  did  good  work 
on  the  paper  —  Carlton  spoke  of  it,  too  —  but 
others  can  do  it  as  well.  I  want  you  to  do 
something  that  is  so  thoroughly  you  that  no 
one  else  can  do  it.  It 's  a  hard  life,  Ruth,  you 
know  that  as  well  as  I  do,  and  1  —  I  love 
you." 

His  last  argument  was  convincing.  "  I 
won't  do  anything  you  don't  want  me  to  do, 
dear,"  she  said,  with  a  new  humility. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  dearest,"  he  an 
swered,  quickly.  "Just  try  my  way  for  a 


1 88 

year  —  that's  all  I  ask.  I  know  your  inde 
pendence  is  sweet  to  you,  but  the  privilege  of 
working  for  you  with  hand  and  brain,  with 
your  love  in  my  heart;  with  you  at  home,  to 
be  proud  of  me  when  I  succeed  and  to  give 
me  new  courage  when  I  fail,  why,  it 's  the 
sweetest  thing  I  've  ever  known." 

"I'll  have  to  go  back  to  town  very  soon, 
though,"  she  said,  a  little  later,  "I  am  inter 
rupting  the  honeymoon." 

"We'll  have  one  of  our  own  very  soon 
that  you  can't  interrupt,  and,  when  you  go 
back,  I  'm  going  with  you.  We  '11  buy  things 
for  the  house." 

"We  need  lots  of  things,  don't  we?"  she 
asked. 

"  I  expect  we  do,  darling,  but  I  have  n't  the 
least  idea  what  they  are.  You  '11  have  to  tell 
me." 

"Oriental  rugs,  for  one  thing,"  she  said, 
"and  a  mahogany  piano,  and  an  instrument 
to  play  it  with,  because  I  have  n't  any  parlour 
tricks,  and  some  good  pictures,  and  a  waffle 
iron  and  a  porcelain  rolling  pin." 

"What  do  you  know  about  rolling  pins 
and  waffle  irons  ?  "  he  asked  fondly. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  she  replied,  patronisingly, 


plans 

"you  forget  that  in  the  days  when  I  was  a 
free  and  independent  woman,  I  was  on  a 
newspaper.  I  know  lots  of  things  that  are 
utterly  strange  to  you,  because,  in  all  proba 
bility,  you  never  ran  a  woman's  department. 
If  you  want  soup,  you  must  boil  meat  slowly, 
and  if  you  want  meat,  you  must  boil  it  rapid 
ly,  and  if  dough  sticks  to  a  broom  straw  when 
you  jab  it  into  a  cake,  it  is  n't  done." 

He  laughed  joyously.  "How  about  the 
porcelain  rolling  pin  ?  " 

"  It's  germ  proof,"  she  rejoined,  soberly. 

"Are  we  going  to  keep  house  on  the  an 
tiseptic  plan  ?  " 

"We  are  —  it's  better  than  the  installment 
plan,  is  n't  it  ?  Oh,  Carl  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
"I've  had  the  brightest  idea!  " 

"  Spring  it!  "  he  demanded. 

"  Why,  Aunt  Jane's  attic  is  full  of  old  furni 
ture,  and  I  believe  she '11  give  it  to  us!  " 

His  face  fell.  "How  charming,"  he  said, 
without  emotion. 

"Oh,  you  stupid,"  she  laughed,  "it's  col 
onial  mahogany,  every  stick  of  it  !  It  only 
needs  to  be  done  over!  " 

"Ruth,  you're  a  genius." 

"Wait  till  I  get  it,  before  you  praise  me. 


189 


plane 


1 90  Xavenfcer  anfc  ©ID  Xace 

plans  just  stay  here  a  minute  and  I  '11  run  up  to  see 
what  frame  of  mind  she  's  in." 

When  she  entered  the  kitchen,  the  bride 
was  busily  engaged  in  getting  supper.  Uncle 
James,  with  a  blue  gingham  apron  tied  under 
his  arms,  was  awkwardly  peeling  potatoes. 
"Oh,  how  good  that  smells!  "  exclaimed  Ruth, 
as  a  spicy  sheet  of  gingerbread  was  taken  out 
of  the  oven. 

Aunt  Jane  looked  at  her  kindly,  with  grati 
fied  pride  beaming  from  every  feature.  "I 
wish  you'd  teach  me  to  cook,  Aunty,"  she 
continued,  following  up  her  advantage,  "you 
know  I  'm  going  to  marry  Mr.  Winfield." 

"  Why,  yes,  I  '11  teach  you  —  where  is  he  ?  " 

' '  He  's  outside  —  I  just  came  in  to  speak  to 
you  a  minute." 

"You  can  ask  him  to  supper  if  you  want 
to." 

"Thank  you,  Aunty,  that's  lovely  of  you. 
I  know  he'll  like  to  stay." 

"James,"  said  Mrs.  Ball,  "you're  peelin' 
them  pertaters  with  thick  peelins'  and  you  '11 
land  in  the  poorhouse.  I  've  never  knowed  it 
to  fail." 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you  something,  Aunty," 
Ruth  went  on  quickly,  though  feeling  that 


plans 


191 


the  moment  was  not  auspicious,  "you  know        plans 
all  that  old  furniture  up  in  the  attic?" 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"Why  —  why  —  you  aren't  using  it,  you 
know,  and  I  thought  perhaps  you  'd  be  willing 
to  give  it  to  us,  so  that  we  can  go  to  house 
keeping  as  soon  as  we're  married." 

"It  was  your  grandmother's,"  Aunt  Jane 
replied  after  long  thought,  "and,  as  you  say, 
I  ain't  usin'  it.  I  don't  know  but  what  you 
might  as  well  have  it  as  anybody  else.  I  lay 
out  to  buy  me  a  new  haircloth  parlour  suit 
with  that  two  hundred  dollars  of  James's  —  he 
give  the  minister  the  hull  four  dollars  over  and 
above  that  —  and  —  yes,  you  can  have  it,"  she 
concluded. 

Ruth  kissed  her,  with  real  feeling.  "  Thank 
you  so  much,  Aunty.  It  will  be  lovely  to  have 
something  that  was  my  grandmother's." 

When  she  went  back  to  Winfield,  he  was 
absorbed  in  a  calculation  he  was  making  on 
the  back  of  an  envelope. 

"You're  not  to  use  your  eyes,"  she  said 
warningly,  ' '  and,  oh  Carl !  It  was  my  grand 
mother's  and  she  's  given  us  every  bit  of  it, 
and  you  're  to  stay  to  supper  !  " 

"  Must  be  in  a  fine  humour,"  he  observed. 


192 


Xavenfcer  anfc  <§>U>  Xace 


"I'm  ever  so  glad.  Come  here,  darling,  you 
don't  know  how  I  've  missed  you." 

"I've  been  earning  furniture,"  she  said, 
settling  down  beside  him.  "  People  earn  what 
they  get  from  Aunty  —  I  won't  say  that,  though, 
because  it's  mean." 

"Tell  me  about  this  remarkable  furniture. 
What  is  it,  and  how  much  of  it  is  destined  to 
glorify  our  humble  cottage  ?  " 

"  It  's  all  ours,"  she  returned  serenely,  "  but 
I  don't  know  just  how  much  there  is.  I  did  n't 
look  at  it  closely,  you  know,  because  I  never 
expected  to  have  any  of  it.  Let  's  see  —  there  's 
a  heavy  dresser,  and  a  large,  round  table,  with 
claw  feet  —  that  's  our  dining-table,  and  there  's 
a  bed,  just  like  those  in  the  windows  in  town, 
when  it  's  done  over,  and  there  's  a  big  old- 
fashioned  sofa,  and  a  spinning-wheel  —  " 

"Are  you  going  to  spin  ?  " 

"Hush,  don't  interrupt.  There  are  five 
chairs  —  dining-room  chairs,  and  two  small 
tables,  and  a  card  table  with  a  leaf  that  you 
can  stand  up  against  the  wall,  and  two  lovely 
rockers,  and  I  don't  know  what  else." 

"That's  a  fairly  complete  inventory,  con 
sidering  that  you  'didn't  look  at  it  closely.' 
What  a  little  humbug  you  are  !  " 


plans 

"You  like  humbugs,  don't  you?" 

"Some,  not  all." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  Ruth 
moved  away  from  him.  "Tell  me  about 
everything,"  she  said.  "Think  of  all  the 
years  I  haven't  known  you  !  " 

' '  There 's  nothing  to  tell,  dear.  Are  you  go 
ing  to  conduct  an  excavation  into  my  '  past  ? ' ' 

"  Indeed,  1  'm  not  !  The  present  is  enough 
for  me.  and  I  '11  attend  to  your  future  myself." 

"There's  not  much  to  be  ashamed  of, 
Ruth,"  he  said,  soberly.  "I've  always  had 
the  woman  I  should  marry  in  my  mind —  'the 
not  impossible  she,'  and  my  ideal  has  kept  me 
out  of  many  a  pitfall.  I  wanted  to  go  to  her 
with  clean  hands  and  a  clean  heart,  and  I  have. 
I  'm  not  a  saint,  but  I  'm  as  clean  as  I  could  be, 
and  live  in  the  world  at  all." 

Ruth  put  her  hand  on  his.  "  Tell  me  about 
your  mother." 

A  shadow  crossed  his  face  and  he  waited  a 
moment  before  speaking.  "My  mother  died 
when  I  was  born,"  he  said  with  an  effort. 
"I  can't  tell  you  about  her,  Ruth,  she  —  she 
—  was  n't  a  very  good  woman." 

"Forgive  me,  dear,"  she  answered  with 
quick  sympathy,  "I  don't  want  to  know  ! " 


194  Xaven&er  anfc  ©Ib  Xace 

plans  "I  didn't  know  about  it  until  a  few  years 

ago,"  he  continued,  "when  some  kindly  dis 
posed  relatives  of  father's  gave  me  full  partic 
ulars.  They  're  dead  now,  and  I  'm  glad  of  it. 
She  —  she  —  drank. " 

"  Don't,  Carl!"  she  cried,  "I  don't  want  to 
know!" 

"You  're  a  sweet  girl,  Ruth,"  he  said,  ten 
derly,  touching  her  hand  to  his  lips.  "  Father 
died  when  I  was  ten  or  twelve  years  old  and 
I  can't  remember  him  very  well,  though  I 
have  one  picture,  taken  a  little  while  before 
he  was  married.  He  was  a  moody,  silent 
man,  who  hardly  ever  spoke  to  any  one. 
I  know  now  that  he  was  broken-hearted.  I 
can't  remember  even  the  tones  of  his  voice, 
but  only  one  or  two  little  peculiarities.  He 
could  n't  bear  the  smell  of  lavender  and  the 
sight  of  any  shade  of  purple  actually  made  him 
suffer.  It  was  very  strange. 

"I've  picked  up  what  education  I  have," 
he  went  on.  "I  have  nothing  to  give  you, 
Ruth,  but  these — "  he  held  out  his  hands  — 
"and  my  heart." 

"  That 's  all  I  want,  dearest  —  don't  tell  me 
any  more!  " 

A  bell  rang  cheerily,  and,  when  they  went 


plans 

in,  Aunt  Jane  welcomed  him  with  apparent 
cordiality,  though  a  close  observer  might  have 
detected  a  tinge  of  suspicion.  She  liked  the 
ring  on  Ruth's  finger,  which  she  noticed  for 
the  first  time.  "It's  real  pretty,  ain't  it, 
James  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes  'm,  'tis  so." 

"  It 's  just  come  to  my  mind  now  that  you 
never  give  me  no  ring  except  this  here  one 
we  was  married  with.  I  guess  we  'd  better 
take  some  of  that  two  hundred  dollars  you  've 
got  sewed  up  in  that  unchristian  belt  you 
insist  on  wearin'  and  get  me  a  ring  like  Ruth's, 
and  use  the  rest  for  furniture,  don't  you  think 
so?" 

"Yes'm,"  he  replied.  "Ring  and  furni 
ture —  or  anythin'  you  'd  like." 

"James  is  real  indulgent,"  she  said  to  Win- 
field,  with  a  certain  modest  pride  which  was 
at  once  ludicrous  and  pathetic. 

"He  should  be,  Mrs.  Ball,"  returned  the 
young  man,  gallantly. 

She  looked  at  him  closely,  as  if  to  discover 
whether  he  was  in  earnest,  but  he  did  not 
flinch.  "  Young  feller,"  she  said,  "you  ain't 
layin'  out  to  take  no  excursions  on  the  water, 
be  you  ?  " 


196  Xavenfcer  anfc  ©ID  Xace 

"Not that  I  knowof,"  he  answered,  "why?" 

"Sea-farin'  is  dangerous,"  she  returned. 

"Mis'  Ball  was  terrible  sea  sick  comin' 
here,"  remarked  her  husband.  "She  didn't 
seem  to  have  no  sea  legs,  as  you  may  say." 

"Ain't  you  tired  of  dwellin'  on  that  ?"  asked 
Aunt  Jane,  sharply.  "  'T  ain't  no  disgrace  to 
be  sea  sick,  and  I  wan't  the  only  one." 

Winfield  came  to  the  rescue  with  a  question 
and  the  troubled  waters  were  soon  calm 
again.  After  supper,  Ruth  said:  "Aunty, 
may  I  take  Mr.  Winfield  up  to  the  attic  and 
show  him  my  grandmother's  things  that 
you  've  just  given  me  ?  " 

"Run  along,  child.  Me  and  James  will 
wash  the  dishes." 

"  Poor  James,"  said  Winfield,  in  a  low  tone, 
as  they  ascended  the  stairs.  "  Do  I  have  to 
wash  dishes,  Ruth  ?  " 

"  It  wouldn't  surprise  me.  You  said  you 
wanted  to  work  for  me,  and  I  despise  dishes." 

"  Then  we  '11  get  an  orphan  to  do  'em.  I  'm 
not  fitted  for  it,  and  I  don't  think  you  are. 

"Say,  isn't  this  great !  "  he  exclaimed,  as 
they  entered  the  attic.  "Trunks,  cobwebs, 
and  old  furniture  !  Why  have  I  never  been 
here  before  ?  " 


plans 

"It  wasn't  proper,"  replied  Ruth,  primly, 
with  a  sidelong  glance  at  him.  "  No,  go 
away! " 

They  dragged  the  furniture  out  into  the 
middle  of  the  room  and  looked  it  over  criti 
cally.  There  was  all  that  she  had  described, 
and  unsuspected  treasure  lay  in  concealment 
behind  it.  ' '  There 's  almost  enough  to  furnish 
a  flat!  "  she  cried,  in  delight. 

He  was  opening  the  drawers  of  a  cabinet, 
which  stood  far  back  under  the  eaves. 
"What's  this,  Ruth?" 

"Oh,  it's  old  blue  china — willow  pattern! 
How  rich  we  are!  " 

"  Is  old  blue  willow-pattern  china  con 
sidered  beautiful  ?  " 

"Of  course  it  is,  you  goose !  We  '11  have  to 
have  our  dining-room  done  in  old  blue,  now, 
with  a  shelf  on  the  wall  for  these  plates." 

"  Why  can't  we  have  a  red  dining-room  ?" 

"Because  it  would  be  a  fright.  You  can 
have  a  red  den,  if  you  like." 

"All  right,"  he  answered,  "but  it  seems  to 
me  it  would  be  simpler  and  save  a  good  deal 
of  expense,  if  we  just  pitched  the  plates  into 
the  sad  sea.  I  don't  think  much  of  'em." 

"That's    because    you're    not    educated, 


198 

plans  dearest,"  returned  Ruth,  sweetly.  "When 
you  're  married,  you  '11  know  a  great  deal 
more  about  china — you  see  if  you  don't." 

They  lingered  until  it  was  so  dark  that  they 
could  scarcely  see  each  other's  faces.  "  We  '11 
come  up  again  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "Wait 
a  minute." 

She  groped  over  to  the  east  window,  where 
there  was  still  a  faint  glow,  and  lighted  the 
lamp,  which  stood  in  its  accustomed  place, 
newly  filled. 

"You  're  not  going  to  leave  it  burning,  are 
you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Jane  has  a  light  in  this  window 
every  night." 

"Why,  what  for?" 

"  I  don't  know,  dearest.  I  think  it's  for  a 
lighthouse,  but  I  don't  care.  Come,  let 's  go 
downstairs." 


XIV 

"3for  IRemembrance " 

HPHE  next  day,  while  Ruth  was  busily 
1  gathering  up  her  few  belongings  and 
packing  her  trunk,  Winfield  appeared  with  a 
suggestion  regarding  the  advisability  of  out 
door  exercise.  Uncle  James  stood  at  the  gate 
and  watched  them  as  they  went  down  hill. 
He  was  a  pathetic  old  figure,  predestined  to 
loneliness  under  all  circumstances. 

"That's  the  way  I'll  look  when  we've 
been  married  a  few  years,"  said  Carl. 

"  Worse  than  that,"  returned  Ruth,  gravely. 
"  I'm  sorry  for  you,  even  now." 

"You  needn't  be  proud  and  haughty  just 
because  you  've  had  a  wedding  at  your  house 
— we  're  going  to  have  one  at  ours." 

"  At  ours  ?  " 

"At  the  'Widder's,'  I  mean,  this  very 
evening." 

"  That 's  nice,"  answered  Ruth,  refusing  to 
ask  the  question. 


200 


"Set 
emen 

btance 


"It's  Joe  and  Hepsey,"  he  continued,  "and 
I  thought  perhaps  you  might  stoop  low  enough 
to  assist  me  in  selecting  an  appropriate  wed 
ding  gift  in  yonder  seething  mart.  I  feel 
greatly  indebted  to  them." 

"  Why,  of  course  I  will;  it's  quite  sudden, 
is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  say  so.  However, 
it's  the  most  reversed  wedding  I  ever  heard 
of.  A  marriage  at  the  home  of  the  groom,  to 
say  the  least,  is  unusual.  Moreover,  the 
'  Widder '  Pendleton  is  to  take  the  bridal 
tour  and  leave  the  happy  couple  at  home. 
She  's  going  to  visit  a  relative  who  is  distant 
in  both  position  and  relationship — all  unknown 
to  the  relative,  I  fancy.  She  starts  immediately 
after  the  ceremony  and  it  seems  to  me  that  it 
would  be  a  pious  notion  to  throw  rice  and  old 
shoes  after  her." 

"Why,  Carl!  You  don't  want  to  maim 
her,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  would  n't  mind.  If  it  had  n't  been  for 
my  ostrich-like  digestion,  I  would  n't  have 
had  anything  to  worry  about  by  this  time. 
However,  if  you  insist,  I  will  throw  the 
rice  and  let  you  heave  the  shoes.  If  you 
have  the  precision  of  aim  which  distin- 


tfor  IRemembrance  " 


guishes  your  sex,  the  '  Widder '  will  escape 
uninjured." 

"  Am  I  to  be  invited  ?  " 

"Certainly — have  n't  I  already  invited  you  ?  " 

"They  may  not  like  it." 

"  That  does  n't  make  any  difference.  Lots 
of  people  go  to  weddings  who  are  n't 
wanted." 

"I'll  go,  then,"  announced  Ruth,  "and 
once  again,  I  give  you  my  gracious  permission 
to  kiss  the  bride." 

"Thank  you,  dear,  but  I'm  not  going  to 
kiss  any  brides  except  my  own.  I  've  signed 
the  pledge  and  sworn  off." 

They  created  a  sensation  in  the  village  when 
they  acquired  the  set  of  china  which  had  been 
on  exhibition  over  a  year.  During  that  time 
it  had  fallen  at  least  a  third  in  price,  though 
its  value  was  unchanged.  Ruth  bought  a 
hideous  red  table-cloth,  which  she  knew 
would  please  Hepsey,  greatly  to  Winfield's 
disgust. 

"Why  do  you  do  that?"  he  demanded. 
"Don  't  you  know  that,  in  all  probability,  I  'II 
have  to  eat  off  of  it  ?  I  much  prefer  the  oil 
cloth,  to  which  I  am  now  accustomed." 

"You'll  have  to  get  used  to  table  linen, 


"jfor 
IRcmcma 
brance  " 


3Lav>en&er  anfc  ©10  Xace 


"ffor 
•Kcment 

forance 


dear,"  she  returned  teasingly;  "  it 's  my  am 
bition  to  have  one  just  like  this  for  state  occa 
sions." 

Joe  appeared  with  the  chariot  just  in  time  to 
receive  and  transport  the  gift.  "  Here  's  your 
wedding  present,  Joe!"  called  Winfield,  and 
the  innocent  villagers  formed  a  circle  about 
them  as  the  groom-elect  endeavoured  to  ex 
press  his  appreciation.  Winfield  helped  him 
pack  the  "  101  pieces  "  on  the  back  seat  and 
under  it,  and  when  Ruth,  feeling  like  a  fairy 
godmother,  presented  the  red  table-cloth,  his 
cup  of  joy  was  full. 

He  started  off  proudly,  with  a  soup  tureen 
and  two  platters  on  the  seat  beside  him.  The 
red  table-cloth  was  slung  over  his  arm,  in 
toreador  fashion,  and  the  normal  creak  of  the 
conveyance  was  accentuated  by  an  ominous 
rattle  of  crockery.  Then  he  circled  back,  mo 
tioning  them  to  wait. 

"Here's  sunthin'  I  most  forgot,"  he  said, 
giving  Ruth  a  note.  " I'd  drive  you  back  fer 
nothin',  only  I  've  got  sech  a  load." 

The  note  was  from  Miss  Ainslie,  inviting 
Miss  Thorne  and  her  friend  to  come  at  five 
o'clock  and  stay  to  tea.  No  answer  was  ex 
pected  unless  she  could  not  come. 


3for  IRemembrance  "  203 


The  quaint,  old-fashioned  script  was  in  some 
way  familiar.  A  flash  of  memory  took  Ruth 
back  to  the  note  she  had  found  in  the  dresser 
drawer,  beginning:  "I  thank  you  from  my 
heart  for  understanding  me."  So  it  was  Miss 
Ainslie  who  had  sent  the  mysterious  message 
to  Aunt  Jane. 

"You're  not  paying  any  attention  to  me," 
complained  Winfield.  "I  suppose,  when 
we  're  married,  I  '11  have  to  write  out  what  I 
want  to  say  to  you,  and  put  it  on  file." 

"You  're  a  goose,"  laughed  Ruth.  "We  're 
going  to  Miss  Ainslie's  to-night  for  tea.  Are  n't 
we  getting  gay  ?  " 

"Indeed  we  are!  Weddings  and  teas  fol 
low  one  another  like  Regret  on  the  heels  of 
Pleasure." 

"Pretty  similie,"  commented  Ruth.  "If 
we  go  to  the  tea,  we  '11  have  to  miss  the  wed 
ding." 

"Well,  we  've  been  to  a  wedding  quite  re 
cently,  so  I  suppose  it 's  better  to  go  to  the  tea. 
Perhaps,  by  arranging  it,  we  might  be  given 
nourishment  at  both  places  —  not  that  I  pine 
forthe  'Widder's'  cooking.  Anyhow,  we've 
sent  our  gift,  and  they  'd  rather  have  that  than 
to  have  us,  if  they  were  permitted  to  choose." 


2O4 


Xaven&er  anfc  ©U>  Xace 


"for 
tRemem* 
brance  " 


"Do  you  suppose  they'll  give  us  any 
thing  ?" 

"  Let  us  hope  not." 

"I  don't  believe  we  want  any  at  all,"  she 
said.  "  Most  of  them  would  be  in  bad  taste, 
and  you  'd  have  to  bury  them  at  night,  one  at 
a  time,  while  I  held  a  lantern." 

"The  policeman  on  the  beat  would  come 
and  ask  us  what  we  were  doing,"  he  ob 
jected;  "and  when  we  told  him  we  were 
only  burying  our  wedding  presents,  he 
would  n't  believe  us.  We  'd  be  dragged  to 
the  station  and  put  into  a  noisome  cell. 
Would  n't  it  make  a  pretty  story  for  the  morn 
ing  papers!  The  people  who  gave  us  the 
things  would  enjoy  it  over  their  coffee." 

"  It  would  be  pathetic,  would  n't  it  ?" 

"It  would,  Miss  Thorne.  I  think  we'd 
better  not  tell  anybody  until  its  all  safely  over, 
and  then  we  can  have  a  little  card  printed  to 
go  with  the  announcement,  saying  that  if  any 
body  is  inclined  to  give  us  a  present,  we  'd 
rather  have  the  money." 

"  You  're  a  very  practical  person,  Carl.  One 
would  think  you  had  been  married  several 
times." 

"We'll   be   married  as   often  as  you  like, 


"jfor  IRemembrance  " 


205 


dear.  Judging  by  your  respected  aunt,  one 
ceremony  is  n't  '  rightfully  bindin  ',  and  I  want 
it  done  often  enough  to  be  sure  that  you  can't 
get  away  from  me." 

As  they  entered  the  gate,  Uncle  James  ap 
proached  stealthily  by  a  roundabout  way  and 
beckoned  to  them.  "  Excuse  me,"  he  began, 
as  they  came  within  speaking  distance,  "but 
has  Mis'  Ball  give  you  furniture  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  Ruth,  in  astonishment, 
"why?" 

"There's  clouds  to  starboard  and  she's  re- 
pentin'.  She's  been  admirin'  of  it  the  hull 
mornin'  in  the  attic.  I  was  sot  in  the  kitchen 
with  pertaters,"  he  explained,  "but  the  work 
is  wearin'  and  a  feller  needs  fresh  air." 

"Thank  you  for  the  tip,  Uncle,"  said  Win- 
field,  heartily. 

The  old  man  glowed  with  gratification. 
"We  men  understand  each  other,"  was 
plainly  written  on  his  expressive  face,  as  he 
went  noiselessly  back  to  the  kitchen. 

"You'd  better  go  home,  dear,"  suggested 
Ruth. 

"Delicate  hint,"  replied  Winfield.  "It 
would  take  a  social  strategist  to  perceive  your 
hidden  meaning.  Still,  my  finer  sensibilities 


"  for 

IRemrm- 
brancc  " 


206 


an&  ©15  Xace 


"tfor 
tRemem* 
brance  " 


respond  instantly  to  your  touch,  and  I  will  go. 
I  flatter  myself  that  I  've  never  had  to  be  put 
out  yet,  when  I've  been  calling  on  a  girl. 
Some  subtle  suggestion  like  yours  has  always 
been  sufficient." 

"Don't  be  cross,  dear  —  let's  see  how  soon 
you  can  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill.  You 
can  come  back  at  four  o'clock." 

He  laughed  and  turned  back  to  wave  his 
hand  at  her.  She  wafted  a  kiss  from  the  tips 
of  her  fingers,  which  seemed  momentarily  to 
impede  his  progress,  but  she  motioned  him 
away  and  ran  into  the  house. 

Aunt  Jane  was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  so  she 
went  on  into  the  kitchen  to  help  Uncle  James 
with  the  potatoes.  He  had  peeled  almost  a 
peck  and  the  thick  parings  lay  in  a  heap  on 
the  floor.  "My  goodness!"  she  exclaimed. 
"You'd  better  throw  those  out,  Uncle,  and 
I  '11  put  the  potatoes  on  to  boil." 

He  hastened  out,  with  his  arms  full  of  peel 
ings.  "You're  a  real  kind  woman,  Niece 
Ruth,"  he  said  gratefully,  when  he  came  in. 
"You  don't  favour  your  aunt  none  —  I  think 
you're  more  like  me." 

Mrs.  Ball  entered  the  kitchen  with  a  cloud 
upon  her  brow,  and  in  one  of  those  rare  flashes 


207 

of  insight  which  are  vouchsafed  to  plodding 
mortals,  a  plan  of  action  presented  itself  to 
Ruth. 

"Aunty,"  she  said,  before  Mrs.  Ball  had 
time  to  speak,  "you  know  I  'm  going  back  to 
the  city  to-morrow,  and  I  'd  like  to  send  you 
and  Uncle  James  a  wedding  present  — you  've 
been  so  good  to  me.  What  shall  it  be  ?  " 

"Well,  now,  I  don't  know,"  she  answered, 
visibly  softening,  "but  I'll  think  it  over,  and 
let  you  know." 

"What  would  you  like,  Uncle  James?" 

"You  needn't  trouble  him  about  it,"  ex 
plained  his  wife.  "He'll  like  whatever  I  do, 
won't  you,  James  ?  " 

"Yes  'm,  just  as  you  say." 

After  dinner,  when  Ruth  broached  the  sub 
ject  of  furniture,  she  was  gratified  to  find  that 
Aunt  Jane  had  no  serious  objections.  "  I  kin 
der  hate  to  part  with  it,  Ruth,"  she  said,  "but 
in  a  way,  as  you  may  say,  it's  yours." 

'"T  is  n't  like  giving  it  away,  Aunty  —  it's 
all  in  the  family,  and,  as  you  say,  you  're  not 
using  it." 

"That's  so,  and  then  James  and  me  are 
likely  to  come  and  make  you  a  long  visit,  so 
I  '11  get  the  good  of  it,  too." 


208 


Xavenfcer  an& 


Xace 


"fot 
IRcmem* 
brance  " 


Ruth  was  momentarily  stunned,  but  rallied 
enough  to  express  great  pleasure  at  the  pros 
pect.  As  Aunt  Jane  began  to  clear  up  the 
dishes,  Mr.  Ball  looked  at  his  niece,  with  a 
certain  quiet  joy,  and  then,  unmistakably, 
winked. 

"  When  you  decide  about  the  wedding  pres 
ent,  Aunty,  let  me  know,  won't  you  ?  "  she 
asked,  as  Mrs.  Ball  came  in  after  the  rest  of 
the  dishes.  "Mr.  Winfield  would  like  to 
send  you  a  remembrance  also."  Then  Ruth 
added,  to  her  conscience,  "I  know  he  would." 

"He  seems  like  a  pleasant-spoken  feller," 
remarked  Aunt  Jane.  "You  can  ask  him  to 
supper  to-night,  if  you  like." 

"Thank  you,  Aunty,  but  we're  going  to 
Miss  Ainslie's." 

"  Huh !  "  snorted  Mrs.  Ball.  ' '  Mary  Ainslie 
ain't  got  no  sperrit!"  With  this  enigmatical 
statement,  she  sailed  majestically  out  of  the 
room. 

During  the  afternoon,  Ruth  finished  her 
packing,  leaving  out  a  white  shirt-waist  to 
wear  to  Miss  Ainslie's.  When  she  went  down 
to  the  parlour  to  wait  for  Winfield,  Aunt  Jane 
appeared,  with  her  husband  in  her  wake. 

"Ruth,"  she  announced,   "me  and  James 


TRemembrance  " 


209 


have  decided  on  a  weddin'  present.  I  would 
like  a  fine  linen  table-cloth  and  a  dozen  nap 
kins." 

"All  right,  Aunty." 

"And  if  Mr.  Winfield  is  disposed  to  it,  he 
can  give  me  a  lemonade  set  —  one  of  them 
what  has  different  coloured  tumblers  belongin' 
to  it." 

"He'll  be  pleased  to  send  it,  Aunty;  I 
know  he  will." 

"  I  'm  a-layin'  out  to  take  part  of  them  two 
hundred  dollars  what 's  sewed  up  in  James's 
belt,  and  buy  me  a  new  black  silk,"  she  went 
on.  "  I've  got  some  real  lace  to  trim  it  with, 
what  James  give  me  in  the  early  years  of  our 
engagement.  Don't  you  think  a  black  silk  is 
allers  nice,  Ruth?" 

"  Yes,  it  is,  Aunty;  and  just  now,  it 's  very 
stylish." 

"You  appear  to  know  about  such  things. 
I  guess  I  '11  let  you  get  it  for  me  in  the  city 
when  you  buy  the  weddin'  present.  I  '11  give 
you  the  money,  and  you  can  get  the  linin's 
too,  while  you  're  about  it." 

"I'll  send  you  some  samples,  Aunty,  and 
then  you  can  take  your  choice." 

"And—"  began  Mrs.  Ball. 


2IO 


Xavenfcer  anfc  ®i&  Xace 


"jfoc 
"Kemem 
brancc 


"  Did  you  know  Mrs.  Pendleton  was  going 
away,  Aunty  ?  "  asked  Ruth,  hastily. 

"  Do  tell !     Elmiry  Peavey  goin'  travellin'  ?  " 

"Yes,  she  's  going  somewhere  for  a  visit — 
I  don't  know  just  where." 

"I  had  laid  out  to  take  James  and  call  on 
Elmiry,"  she  said,  stroking  her  apron  thought 
fully,  while  a  shadow  crossed  Mr.  Ball's  ex 
pressive  face  ;  "but  I  guess  I  '11  wait  now  till 
I  get  my  new  black  silk.  I  want  her  to  know 
I  've  done  well." 

A  warning  hiss  from  the  kitchen  and  the 
odour  of  burning  sugar  impelled  Aunt  Jane  to 
a  hasty  exit  just  as  Winfield  came.  Uncle 
James  followed  them  to  the  door. 

"Niece  Ruth,"  he  said,  hesitating  and 
fumbling  at  his  belt,  "be  you  goin'  to  get 
merried?" 

"I  hope  so,  Uncle,"  she  replied  kindly. 

"Then  —  then  —  I  wish  you 'd  take  this  and 
buy  you  sunthin'  to  remember  your  pore  old 
Uncle  James  by."  He  thrust  a  trembling 
hand  toward  her,  and  offered  her  a  twenty 
dollar  bill. 

"Why,  Uncle!"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
must  n't  take  this!  Thank  you  ever  so  much, 
but  it  is  n't  right!  " 


"jfor  Remembrance" 


"I'd  be  pleased,"  he  said  plaintively. 
"  'Taint  as  if  I  wan't  accustomed  to  money. 
My  store  was  wuth  five  or  six  hundred  dol 
lars,  and  you  've  been  real  pleasant  to  me, 
Niece  Ruth.  Buy  a  hair  wreath  for  the  par 
lour,  or  sunthin'  to  remind  you  of  your  pore 
old  Uncle." 

Winfield  pressed  her  arm  warningly,  and 
she  tucked  the  bill  into  her  chatelaine  bag. 
"Thank  you,  Uncle  !"  she  said;  then,  of  her 
own  accord,  she  stooped  and  kissed  him 
lightly  on  the  cheek. 

A  mist  came  into  the  old  man's  eyes,  and 
he  put  his  hand  to  his  belt  again,  but  she  hur 
riedly  led  Winfield  away.  "  Ruth,"  he  said, 
as  they  went  down  the  hill,  "you  're  a  sweet 
girl.  That  was  real  womanly  kindness  to  the 
poor  devil." 

"Shall  I  be  equally  kind  to  all  'poor 
devils '  ?  " 

"There's  one  more  who  needs  you — if 
you  attend  to  him  properly,  it  will  be 
enough." 

"I  don't  see  how  they're  going  to  get 
Aunty's  silk  gown  and  a  ring  like  mine  and  a 
haircloth  parlour  suit  and  publish  a  book  with 
less  than  two  hundred  dollars,  do  you?" 


212 


Xavenfcer  anfc  ©tt>  Xace 


"got 
tRemcin* 
brance  " 


"Hardly — Joe  says  that  he  gave  Hepsey 
ten  dollars.  There  's  a  great  discussion  about 
the  spending  of  it." 

"  I  did  n't  know  —  I  feel  guilty." 

"You  needn't,  darling.  There  was  noth 
ing  else  for  you  to  do.  How  did  you  succeed 
with  your  delicate  mission  ?" 

"  I  managed  it,"  she  said  proudly.  "  I  feel 
that  I  was  originally  destined  for  a  diplomatic 
career."  He  laughed  when  she  described  the 
lemonade  set  which  she  had  promised  in  his 
name. 

"I'll  see  that  the  furniture  is  shipped  to 
morrow,"  he  assured  her;  "and  then  I  '11  go 
on  a  still  hunt  for  the  gaudy  glassware.  I  'm 
blessed  if  I  don't  give  'em  a  silver  ice  pitcher, 
too." 

"  I'm  in  for  a  table-cloth  and  a  dozen  nap 
kins,"  laughed  Ruth;  "but  I  don't  mind. 
We  won't  bury  Uncle's  wedding  present,  will 
we?" 

"I  should  say  not!  Behold  the  effect  of 
the  card,  long  before  it 's  printed." 

"I  know,"  said  Ruth,  seriously,  "I'll  get  a 
silver  spoon  or  something  like  that  out  of  the 
twenty  dollars,  and  then  I  '11  spend  the  rest  of 
it  on  something  nice  for  Uncle  James.  The 


TRemembrance  " 


213 


poor  soul  is  n't  getting  any  wedding  present, 
and  he  '11  never  know." 

"There's  a  moral  question  involved  in 
that,"  replied  Winfield.  "Is  it  right  to  use 
his  money  in  that  way  and  assume  the  credit 
yourself?  " 

"We'll  have  to  think  it  over,"  Ruth  ans 
wered.  "  It  is  n't  so  very  simple  after  all." 

Miss  Ainslie  was  waiting  for  them  in  the 
garden  and  came  to  the  gate  to  meet  them. 
She  wore  a  gown  of  lavender  taffeta,  which 
rustled  and  shone  in  the  sunlight.  The  skirt 
was  slightly  trained,  with  a  dust  ruffle  under 
neath,  and  the  waist  was  made  in  surplice 
fashion,  open  at  the  throat.  A  bertha  of  rar 
est  Brussels  lace  was  fastened  at  her  neck 
with  the  amethyst  pin,  inlaid  with  gold  and 
surrounded  by  baroque  pearls.  The  ends  of 
the  bertha  hung  loosely  and  under  it  she  had 
tied  an  apron  of  sheerest  linen,  edged  with 
narrow  Duchesse  lace.  Her  hair  was  coiled 
softly  on  top  of  her  head,  with  a  string  of 
amethysts  and  another  of  pearls  woven  among 
the  silvery  strands. 

"  Welcome  to  my  house,"  she  said,  smiling, 
Winfield  at  once  became   her  slave.     She 


••for 
IRemem* 
brance  " 


214 


Xace 


"fot 
tRemems 
brance  " 


talked  easily,  with  that  exquisite  cadence 
which  makes  each  word  seem  like  a  gift,  but 
there  was  a  certain  subtle  excitement  in  her 
manner,  which  Ruth  did  not  fail  to  perceive. 
When  Winfield  was  not  looking  at  Miss  Ains- 
lie,  her  eyes  rested  upon  him  with  a  wonder 
ing  hunger,  mingled  with  tenderness  and  fear. 

Midsummer  lay  upon  the  garden  and  the 
faint  odour  of  mignonette  and  lavender  came 
with  every  wandering  wind.  White  butter 
flies  and  thistledown  floated  in  the  air,  bees 
hummed  drowsily,  and  the  stately  hollyhocks 
swayed  slowly  back  and  forth. 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  asked  you  to  come 
to-day  ?  "  She  spoke  to  Ruth,  but  looked  at 
Winfield. 

"  Why,  Miss  Ainslie  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  my  birthday  —  I  am  fifty-five 
years  old." 

Ruth's  face  mirrored  her  astonishment. 
' '  You  don't  look  any  older  than  I  do, "  she  said. 

Except  for  the  white  hair,  it  was  true.  Her 
face  was  as  fresh  as  a  rose  with  the  morning 
dew  upon  it,  and  even  on  her  neck,  where 
the  folds  of  lace  revealed  a  dazzling  whiteness, 
there  were  no  lines. 

"  Teach  us  how  to  live,  Miss  Ainslie,"  said 


"jfor  itemembrance" 


215 


Winfield,  softly,  "  that  the  end  of  half  a  cen 
tury  may  find  us  young." 

A  delicate  pink  suffused  her  cheeks  and 
she  turned  her  eyes  to  his.  "  I  've  just  been 
happy,  that's  all,"  she  answered. 

"It  needs  the  alchemist's  touch,"  he  said, 
"to  change  our  sordid  world  to  gold." 

' '  We  can  all  learn, "  she  replied,  ' '  and  even 
if  we  don't  try,  it  comes  to  us  once." 

"What?"  asked  Ruth. 

"  Happiness  —  even  if  it  is  n't  until  the  end. 
In  every  life  there  is  a  perfect  moment,  like  a 
flash  of  sun.  We  can  shape  our  days  by  that, 
if  we  will  —  before  by  faith,  and  afterward  by 
memory." 

The  conversation  drifted  to  less  serious 
things.  Ruth,  remembering  that  Miss  Ainslie 
did  not  hear  the  village  gossip,  described 
her  aunt's  home-coming,  the  dismissal  of 
Hepsey,  and  told  her  of  the  wedding  which 
was  to  take  place  that  evening.  Winfield 
was  delighted,  for  he  had  never  heard  her 
talk  so  well,  but  Miss  Ainslie  listened  with 
gentle  displeasure. 

"I  did  not  think  Miss  Hathaway  would 
ever  be  married  abroad,"  she  said.  "  I  think 
she  should  have  waited  until  she  came  home. 


"If  or 
IRemema 
brancc  " 


2l6 


&av>en&er  anfc 


%ace 


"jfor 
1Retnem» 
bcance  " 


It  would  have  been  more  delicate  to  let  him 
follow  her.  To  seem  to  pursue  a  gentleman, 
however  innocent  one  may  be,  is  —  is  un- 
maidenly." 

Winfield  choked,  then  coughed  violently. 

"Understand  me,  dear,"  Miss  Ainslie  went 
on,  "I  do  not  mean  to  criticise  your  aunt  — 
she  is  one  of  my  dearest  friends.     Perhaps  1 
should  not  have  spoken  at  all,"  she  concluded 
in  genuine  distress. 

"  It 's  all  right,  Miss  Ainslie,"  Ruth  assured 
her,  "  I  know  just  how  you  feel." 

Winfield,  having  recovered  his  composure, 
asked  a  question  about  the  garden,  and  Miss 
Ainslie  led  them  in  triumph  around  her  do 
main.  She  gathered  a  little  nosegay  of  sweet- 
williams  for  Ruth,  who  was  over  among  the 
hollyhocks,  then  she  said  shyly:  "What  shall 
I  pick  for  you  ?  " 

"  Anything  you  like,  Miss  Ainslie.  I  am  at 
a  loss  to  choose." 

She  bent  over  and  plucked  a  leaf  of  rose 
mary,  looking  at  him  long  and  searchingly  as 
she  put  it  into  his  hand. 

"For  remembrance,"  she  said,  with  the 
deep  fire  burning  in  her  eyes.  Then  she 
added,  with  a  pitiful  hunger  in  her  voice  : 


"jfor  TRemembrance  " 


217 


"Whatever  happens,  you  won't  forget 
me  ? ' ' 

"Never  !"  he  answered,  strangely  stirred. 

"Thank  you,"  she  whispered  brokenly, 
drawing  away  from  him.  "You  look  so 
much  like  —  like  some  one  I  used  to  know." 

At  dusk  they  went  into  the  house.  Except 
for  the  hall,  it  was  square,  with  two  parti 
tions  dividing  it.  The  two  front  rooms  were 
separated  by  an  arch,  and  the  dining-room 
and  kitchen  were  similarly  situated  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  with  a  china  closet  and 
pantry  between  them. 

Miss  Ainslie's  table,  of  solid  mahogany, 
was  covered  only  with  fine  linen  doilies,  after 
a  modern  fashion,  and  two  quaint  candle 
sticks,  of  solid  silver,  stood  opposite  each 
other.  In  the  centre,  in  a  silver  vase  of  for 
eign  pattern,  there  was  a  great  bunch  of  as 
ters —  white  and  pink  and  blue. 

The  repast  was  simple  —  chicken  fried  to  a 
golden  brown,  with  creamed  potatoes,  a 
salad  made  of  fresh  vegetables  from  the  gar 
den,  hot  biscuits,  deliciously  light,  and  the 
fragrant  Chinese  tea,  served  in  the  Royal 
Kaga  cups,  followed  by  pound  cake,  and 
pears  preserved  in  a  heavy  red  syrup. 


ftemcnu; 
brance  " 


2l8 


3Lax>enfcer  anfc 


%ace 


"if  or 
•Kemem 
brancc 


The  hostess  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
dispensing  a  graceful  hospitality.  She  made 
no  apology,  such  as  prefaced  almost  every 
meal  at  Aunt  Jane's.  It  was  her  best,  and 
she  was  proud  to  give  it  —  such  was  the 
impression. 

Afterward,  when  Ruth  told  her  that  she 
was  going  back  to  the  city,  Miss  Ainslie's 
face  grew  sad. 

"  Why  — why  must  you  go  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I'm  interrupting  the  honeymoon,"  Ruth 
answered,  "and  when  I  suggested  departure, 
Aunty  agreed  to  it  immediately.  I  can't  very 
well  stay  now,  can  I  ?  " 

"My  dear,"  said  Miss  Ainslie,  laying  her 
hand  upon  Ruth's,  "  if  you  could,  if  you  only 
would — won't  you  come  and  stay  with  me  ?  " 

"I'd  love  to,"  replied  Ruth,  impetuously, 
"  but  are  you  sure  you  want  me  ?  " 

"Believe  me,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Ainslie, 
simply,  "it  will  give  me  great  happiness." 

So  it  was  arranged  that  the  next  day  Ruth's 
trunk  should  be  taken  to  Miss  Ainslie's,  and 
that  she  would  stay  until  the  first  of  October. 
Winfield  was  delighted,  since  it  brought  Ruth 
nearer  to  him  and  involved  no  long  sepa 
ration. 


IRemembrance  " 


They    went    outdoors    again,    where    the 

.    ,  ,     .  .... 

crickets  and  katydids  were  chirping  in  the  brancc 
grass,  and  the  drowsy  twitter  of  birds  came 
from  the  maples  above.  The  moon,  at  its 
full,  swung  slowly  over  the  hill,  and  threads 
of  silver  light  came  into  the  fragrant  dusk  of 
the  garden.  Now  and  then  the  moonlight 
shone  full  upon  Miss  Ainslie's  face,  touching 
her  hair  as  if  with  loving  tenderness  and  giv 
ing  her  an  unearthly  beauty.  It  was  the  face 
of  a  saint. 

Winfield,  speaking  reverently,  told  her  of 
their  betrothal.  She  leaned  forward,  into  the 
light,  and  put  one  hand  caressingly  upon  the 
arm  of  each. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  she  said,  with  her  face 
illumined.  Through  the  music  of  her  voice 
ran  lights  and  shadows,  vague,  womanly  ap 
peal,  and  a  haunting  sweetness  neither  could 
ever  forget. 

That  night,  the  gates  of  Youth  turned  on 
their  silent  hinges  for  Miss  Ainslie.  Forget 
ting  the  hoary  frost  that  the  years  had  laid 
upon  her  hair,  she  walked,  hand  in  hand  with 
them,  through  the  clover  fields  which  lay  fair 
before  them  and  by  the  silvered  reaches  of 
the  River  of  Dreams.  Into  their  love  came 


Xa  vender  ariD 


Xace 


"Jot 

tftcmem* 
brance" 


something  sweet  that  they  had  not  found  be 
fore —  the  absolute  need  of  sharing  life  to 
gether,  whether  it  should  be  joy  or  pain. 
Unknowingly,  they  rose  to  that  height  which 
makes  sacrifice  the  soul's  dearest  offering,  as 
the  chrysalis,  brown  and  unbeautiful,  gives 
the  radiant  creature  within  to  the  light  and 
freedom  of  day. 

When  the  whistle  sounded  for  the  ten 
o'clock  train,  Ruth  said  it  was  late  and  they 
must  go.  Miss  Ainslie  went  to  the  gate  with 
them,  her  lavender  scented  gown  rustling  softly 
as  she  walked,  and  the  moonlight  making  new 
beauty  of  the  amethysts  and  pearls  entwined 
in  her  hair. 

Ruth,  aglow  with  happiness,  put  her  arms 
around  Miss  Ainslie's  neck  and  kissed  her 
tenderly. 

"May  I,  too?"  asked  Winfield. 

He  drew  her  toward  him,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  and  Miss  Ainslie  trembled  from 
head  to  foot  as  she  lifted  her  face  to  his. 

Across  the  way  the  wedding  was  in  full 
blast,  but  neither  of  them  cared  to  go.  Ruth 
turned  back  for  a  last  glimpse  of  the  garden 
and  its  gentle  mistress,  but  she  was  gone,  and 
the  light  from  her  candle  streamed  out  until 


3for  Iftetnembrance  " 


it  rested  upon   a  white   hollyhock,  nodding 

,  .. 

drowsily. 

To  Ruth,  walking  in  the  starlight  with  her 
lover,  it  seemed  as  if  the  world  had  been 
made  new.  The  spell  was  upon  Winfield  for 
a  long  time,  but  at  last  he  spoke. 

"If  I  could  have  chosen  my  mother,"  he 
said,  simply,  "she  would  have  been  like  Miss 
Ainslie." 


222 


Ube  Secret 

ant>  tbe 
E)ream 


XV 

Secret  ant)  tbe  Bream 

RUTH  easily  became  accustomed  to  the 
quiet  life  at  Miss  Ainslie's,  and  gradually 
lost  all  desire  to  go  back  to  the  city.  "  You  're 
spoiling  me,"  she  said,  one  day.  "I  don't 
want  to  go  back  to  town,  I  don't  want  to 
work,  I  don't  want  to  do  anything  but  sit 
still  and  look  at  you.  I  did  n't  know  I  was  so 
lazy." 

"You're  not  lazy,  dear,"  answered  Miss 
Ainslie,  "you  were  tired,  and  you  didn't 
know  how  tired  you  were." 

Winfield  practically  lived  there.  In  the 
morning,  he  sat  in  the  garden,  reading  the 
paper,  while  Ruth  helped  about  the  house. 
She  insisted  upon  learning  to  cook,  and  he  ate 
many  an  unfamiliar  dish,  heroically  proclaim 
ing  that  it  was  good.  "You  must  never 
doubt  his  love,"  Miss  Ainslie  said,  "for  those 
biscuits — well,  dear,  you  know  they  were— 
were  not  just  right." 


tlbe  Secret  ant)  tbe  Dream 


223 


The  amateur  cook  laughed  outright  at  the 
gentle  criticism.  "They  were  awful,"  she 
admitted,  "  but  I  'm  going  to  keep  at  it  until 
I  learn  how." 

The  upper  part  of  the  house  was  divided 
into  four  rooms,  with  windows  on  all  sides. 
One  of  the  front  rooms,  with  north  and  east 
windows,  was  Miss  Ainslie's,  while  the  one 
just  back  of  it,  with  south  and  east  windows, 
was  a  sitting-room. 

"  I  keep  my  prettiest  things  up  here,  dear," 
she  explained  to  Ruth,  "for  I  don't  want 
people  to  think  I  'm  crazy."  Ruth  caught  her 
breath  as  she  entered  the  room,  for  rare  tapes 
tries  hung  on  the  walls  and  priceless  rugs 
lay  on  the  floor.  The  furniture,  like  that 
downstairs,  was  colonial  mahogany,  highly 
polished,  with  here  and  there  a  chair  or  table 
of  foreign  workmanship.  There  was  a  cabi 
net,  filled  with  rare  china,  a  marquetry  table, 
and  a  chair  of  teakwood,  inlaid  with  mother 
of  pearl.  In  one  corner  of  the  room  was  a 
large  chest  of  sandal  wood,  inlaid  with  pearl 
and  partly  covered  by  a  wonderful  antique  rug. 

The  world  had  seemingly  given  up  its 
beauty  to  adorn  Miss  Ainslie's  room.  She  had 
pottery  from  Mexico,  China  and  Japan  ; 


Cbe  Secret 
ans tbe 
2>ream 


224 


Xavenfcer  anfc 


%ace 


TZbe  Secret 
an& tbc 
EH  cam 


strange  things  from  Egypt  and  the  Nile,  and 
all  the  Oriental  splendour  of  India  and  Persia. 
Ruth  wisely  asked  no  questions,  but  once,  as 
before,  she  said  hesitating;  "they  were  given 
to  me  by  a — a  friend." 

After  much  pleading  on  Ruth's  part,  Win- 
field  was  allowed  to  come  to  the  sitting 
room.  "He'll  think  I'm  silly,  dear,"  she 
said,  flushing  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  he  shared 
Ruth's  delight,  and  won  Miss  Ainslie's  grati 
tude  by  his  appreciation  of  her  treasures. 

Day  by  day,  the  singular  attraction  grew 
between  them.  She  loved  Ruth,  but  she  took 
him  unreservedly  into  her  heart.  Ruth  ob 
served,  idly,  that  she  never  called  him  "Mr. 
Winfield."  At  first  she  spoke  of  him  as 
"your  friend  "and  afterward,  when  he  had 
asked  her  to,  she  yielded,  with  an  adorable 
shyness,  and  called  him  Carl. 

He,  too,  had  eaten  of  the  lotus  and  lost  the 
desire  to  go  back  to  town.  From  the  hilltop 
they  could  see  the  yellow  fields  and  hear  the 
soft  melody  of  reaping  from  the  valley  around 
them.  He  and  Ruth  often  walked  together, 
but  Miss  Ainslie  never  would  go  with  them. 
She  stayed  quietly  at  home,  as  she  had  done 
for  many  years. 


Secret 


tbe  H)ream 


225 


Every  night,  whenthe  last  train  came  from  the 
city,  she  put  a  lighted  candle  in  her  front  win 
dow,  using  always  the  candlestick  of  solid  sil 
ver,  covered  with  fretwork  in  intricate  design. 
If  Winfield  was  there,  she  managed  to  have 
him  and  Ruth  in  another  room.  At  half-past 
ten,  she  took  it  away,  sighing  softly  as  she 
put  out  the  light. 

Ruth  wondered,  but  said  nothing,  even  to 
Winfield.  The  grain  in  the  valley  was  bound 
in  sheaves,  and  the  first  colour  came  on 
the  maples — sometimes  in  a  delicate  flush,  or 
a  flash  of  gold,  and  sometimes  like  a  blood-red 
wound. 

One  morning,  when  Miss  Ainslie  came 
downstairs,  Ruth  was  startled  at  the  change 
in  her.  The  quick,  light  step  was  slow  and 
heavy,  the  broad,  straight  shoulders  drooped 
a  little,  and  her  face,  while  still  dimpled  and 
fair,  was  subtly  different.  Behind  her  deep, 
violet  eyes  lay  an  unspeakable  sadness  and 
the  rosy  tints  were  gone.  Her  face  was  as 
pure  and  cold  as  marble,  with  the  peace  of  the 
dead  laid  upon  it.  She  seemed  to  have  grown 
old  in  a  single  night. 

All  day  she  said  little  or  nothing  and  would 
not  eat.  She  simply  sat  still,  looking  out  of 


TEbeSecrrt 
an& tbe 

ETcam 


226 


Xavenfcer 


Xace 


"Cbe  Secret 
an6 tbc 
S)ceam 


the  east  window.  "No,"  she  said,  gently, 
to  Ruth,  "nothing  is  the  matter,  deary,  I'm 
just  tired." 

When  Winfield  came,  she  kept  him  away 
from  Miss  Ainslie  without  seeming  to  do  so. 
"  Let 's  go  fora  walk/'  she  said.  She  tried  to 
speak  lightly,  but  there  was  a  lump  in  her 
throat  and  a  tightening  at  her  heart. 

They  climbed  the  hill  and  took  the  side  path 
which  led  to  the  woods,  following  it  down 
and  through  the  aisles  of  trees,  to  the  log 
across  the  path.  Ruth  was  troubled  and  sat 
there  some  little  time  without  speaking,  then 
suddenly,  she  knew  that  something  was 
wrong  with  Carl. 

Her  heart  was  filled  with  strange  foreboding 
and  she  vainly  tried  to  swallow  the  persist 
ent  lump  in  her  throat.  She  spoke  to  him, 
gently,  once  or  twice  and  he  did  not  seem  to 
hear.  "Carl!"  she  cried  in  agony,  "Carl! 
What  is  it  ?  " 

He  tried  to  shake  off  the  spell  which  lay 
upon  him.  "  Nothing,  darling,"  he  said  un 
steadily,  with  something  of  the  old  tenderness. 
"  I  'm  weak  — and  foolish  —  that 's  all." 

"Carl!  Dearest!  "  she  cried,  and  then  broke 
down,  sobbing  bitterly. 


227 


Her  tears  aroused  him  and  he  tried  to  soothe 
her.  "  Ruth,  my  darling  girl,  don't  cry.  We 
have  each  other,  sweetheart,  and  it  does  n't  mat 
ter — nothing  matters  in  the  whole,  wide  world." 

After  a  little,  she  regained  her  self-control. 

"Come  out  into  the  sun,"  he  said,  "it's 
ghostly  here.  You  don't  seem  real  to  me, 
Ruth." 

The  mist  filled  her  eyes  again.  "Don't, 
darling,"  he  pleaded,  "  I'll  try  to  tell  you." 

They  sat  down  on  the  hillside,  where  the 
sun  shone  brightly,  and  where  they  could 
see  Miss  Ainslie's  house  plainly.  She  waited, 
frightened  and  suffering,  for  what  seemed  an 
eternity,  before  he  spoke. 

"  Last  night,  Ruth,"  he  began,  "  my  father 
came  to  me  in  a  dream.  You  know  he  died 
when  I  was  about  twelve  years  old,  and  last 
night  I  saw  him  as  he  would  have  been  if  he 
had  lived  until  now  —  something  over  sixty. 
His  hair  and  beard  were  matted  and  there  was 
the  most  awful  expression  in  his  eyes  —  it 
makes  me  shudder  yet.  He  was  in  his  grave 
clothes,  dead  and  yet  not  dead.  He  was  suf 
fering —  there  was  something  he  was  trying 
to  say  to  me;  something  he  wanted  to  ex 
plain.  We  were  out  here  on  the  hill  in  the 


Ube  Secret 
anMbe 
Dream 


228 


and  ©ID  Xace 


TI be  Secret 
an&  tbe 
E>ream 


moonlight  and  I  could  see  Miss  Ainslie's  house 
and  hear  the  surf  behind  the  cliff.  All  he 
could  say  to  me  was :  '  Abby  —  Mary  —  Mary 
—  Abby  —  she  —  Mary, '  over  and  over  again. 
Once  he  said  'mother.'  Abby  was  my 
mother's  name. 

"  It  is  terrible,"  he  went  on.  "  I  can't  un 
derstand  it.  There  is  something  I  must  do, 
and  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  A  command  is 
laid  on  me  by  the  dead — there  is  some  wrong 
for  which  1  must  atone.  When  I  first  awoke, 
I  thought  it  was  a  dream,  but  it  is  n't,  it 's  real. 
It  seems  as  though  that  was  the  real  world, 
and  this' — all  our  love  and  happiness,  and  you, 
were  just  dreams.  I  can't  bear  it,  Ruth!  " 

He  shuddered,  and  she  tried  to  comfort 
him,  though  she  was  cold  as  a  marble  statue 
and  her  lips  moved  with  difficulty.  "Don't, 
dear,"  she  said,  "it  was  only  a  dream.  I  've 
had  them  sometimes,  so  vividly  that  they 
haunted  me  for  days  and,  as  you  say,  it  seemed 
as  if  that  was  the  real  world  and  this  the 
dream.  I  know  how  you  feel  — those  things 
are  n't  pleasant,  but  there  's  nothing  we  can 
do.  It  makes  one  feel  so  helpless.  The  af 
fairs  of  the  day  are  largely  under  our  control, 
but  at  night,  when  the  body  is  asleep,  the 


ZIbe  Secret  anfc  tbe  H)team 


229 


mind  harks  back  to  things  that  have  been  for 
gotten  for  years.  It  takes  a  fevered  fancy  as 
a  fact,  and  builds  upon  it  a  whole  series  of 
disasters.  It  gives  trivial  things  great  signifi 
cance  and  turns  life  upside  down.  Remem 
bering  it  is  the  worst  of  all." 

"There's  something  I  can't  get  at,  Ruth," 
he  answered.  "  It 's  just  out  of  my  reach.  I 
know  it 's  reasonable  to  suppose  it  was  a 
dream  and  that  it  can  be  explained  by  natural 
causes,  but  I  don't  dream  very  often." 

"  I  dream  every  night,"  she  said.  "  Some 
times  they  're  just  silly,  foolish  things  and 
sometimes  they  're  vivid  and  horrible  realities 
that  I  can't  forget  for  weeks.  But,  surely, 
dear,  we  're  not  foolish  enough  to  believe  in 
dreams  ?" 

"No,  I  hope  not,"  he  replied,  doubtfully. 

"  Let 's  go  for  a  little  walk,"  she  said,  "and 
we  '11  forget  it. " 

Then  she  told  him  how  changed  Miss  Ains- 
lie  was  and  how  she  had  left  her,  sitting  aim 
lessly  by  the  window.  "I  don't  think  I'd 
better  stay  away  long,"  she  concluded,  "she 
may  need  me." 

"I  won't  be  selfish,  Ruth;  we'll  go  back 
now.  "  I  'm  sorry  Miss  Ainslie  is  n't  well." 


TIbe  Seaet 
an& tbe 
E>ream 


230 


Xace 


"Zhc  Secret 
ant> tbe 
H>ream 


"  She  said  she  was  'just  tired'  but  it  is  n't 
like  her  to  be  tired.  She  does  n't  seem  to 
want  anybody  near  her,  but  you  can  sit  in 
the  garden  this  afternoon,  if  you  'd  like  to, 
and  I  '11  flit  in  and  out  like  an  industrious  but 
terfly.  Some  new  books  have  just  come,  and 
I  '11  leave  them  in  the  arbour  for  you." 

"  All  right,  dear,  and  if  there  's  anything  I 
can  do,  I  hope  you  '11  tell  me." 

As  they  approached  the  house,  a  brisk  little 
man  hurried  out  of  the  gate  and  went  toward 
the  village. 

"Who's  that?"  asked  Winfield. 

"I  don't  know — some  one  who  has 
brought  something,  probably.  I  trust  she 's 
better." 

Miss  Ainslie  seemed  more  like  herself,  as 
she  moved  about  the  house,  dusting  and  put 
ting  the  rooms  in  order,  as  was  her  wont. 
At  noon  she  fried  a  bit  of  chicken  for  Ruth, 
but  took  nothing  herself  except  a  cup  of  tea. 

"No,  deary,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  Ruth's 
anxious  question,  "I'm  all  right  —  don't  fret 
about  me." 

"Have  you  any  pain,  Miss  Ainslie  ?" 

"No,  of  course  I  have  n't,  you  foolish 
child!" 


TTbe  Secret  anfc  rbe  H)ream 


231 


She  tried  to  smile,  but  her  white  lips  quiv 
ered  pitifully. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  she  said  she  was 
cold,  Ruth  made  a  fire  in  the  open  fireplace, 
and  wheeled  Miss  Ainslie's  favourite  chair  in 
front  of  it.  She  drew  her  shawl  about  her 
shoulders  and  leaned  back. 

"1  'm  so  comfortable,  now,  she  said 
drowsily;  "I  think  I  'm  going  to  sleep,  dear." 

Ruth  sat  by  her,  pretending  to  read,  but,  in 
reality,  watching  her  closely,  until  the  deep, 
regular  breathing  assured  her  that  she  was 
asleep.  She  went  out  into  the  garden  and 
found  Winfield  in  the  arbour. 

"  How  's  this  patient?"  she  asked,  kissing 
him  lightly  on  the  forehead. 

"I'm  all  right,  dearest,"  he  answered, 
drawing  her  down  beside  him,  "and  I'm 
ashamed  of  myself  because  I  was  so  foolish." 

During  the  afternoon  Ruth  made  frequent 
trips  to  the  house,  each  time  finding  Miss 
Ainslie  sound  asleep.  It  was  after  six  o'clock 
when  she  woke  and  rubbed  her  eyes,  won- 
deringly. 

"  How  long  have  I  been  asleep,  Ruth  ?" 

"All  the  afternoon,  Miss  Ainslie  —  do  you 
feel  better  now  ?  " 


Cbe  Secret' 

an£>  tbe 
5>ream 


232 


XavenDer  anD  ©ID  Xace 


Ube  Secret 
an&  tbe 

S>ream 


"Yes,  I  think  I  do.  I  did  n't  sleep  last 
night,  but  it 's  been  years  since  I  've  taken  a 
nap  in  the  daytime." 

Ruth  invited  Carl  to  supper,  and  made 
them  both  sit  still  while  she  prepared  the 
simple  meal,  which,  as  he  said,  was  "aston 
ishingly  good."  He  was  quite  himself  again, 
but  Miss  Ainslie,  though  trying  to  assume  her 
old  manner,  had  undergone  a  great  change. 

Carl  helped  Ruth  with  the  dishes,  saying 
he  supposed  he  might  as  well  become  accus 
tomed  to  it,  and,  feeling  the  need  of  sleep, 
went  home  very  early. 

"I  'm  all  right,"  he  said  to  Ruth,  as  he  kissed 
her  at  the  door,  "and  you  're  just  the  sweetest 
girl  in  the  world.  Good  night,  darling." 

A  chill  mist  came  inland,  and  Ruth  kept 
pine  knots  burning  in  the  fireplace.  They  sat 
without  other  light,  Miss  Ainslie  with  her 
head  resting  upon  her  hand,  and  Ruth  watch 
ing  her  narrowly.  Now  and  then  they  spoke 
aimlessly,  of  commonplaces. 

When  the  last  train  came  in,  Miss  Ainslie 
raised  her  eyes  to  the  silver  candlestick  that 
stood  on  the  mantel  and  sighed. 

"Shall  I  put  the  light  in  the  window?" 
asked  Ruth. 


ITbe  Secret  anfc  tbe  2)ream 


It  was  a  long  time  before  Miss  Ainslie  an 
swered. 

"No,  deary,"  she  said  sadly,  "never  any 
more." 

She  was  trying  to  hide  her  suffering,  and 
Ruth's  heart  ached  for  her  in  vain.  The 
sound  of  the  train  died  away  in  the  distance 
and  the  firelight  faded. 

"Ruth,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "lam 
going  away." 

"Away,  Miss  Ainslie  ?    Where?" 

"I  don't  know,  dear  —  it's  where  we  all 
go  —  '  the  undiscovered  country  from  whose 
bourne  no  traveller  returns.'  Sometimes  it 's 
a  long  journey  and  sometimes  a  short  one, 
but  we  all  take  it  —  alone  —  at  the  last." 

Ruth's  heart  throbbed  violently,  then  stood 
still. 

"  Don't !  "  she  cried,  sharply. 

"  I  'm  not  afraid,  dear,  and  I  'm  ready  to 
go,  even  though  you  have  made  me  so 
happy  —  you  and  he." 

Miss  Ainslie  waited  a  moment,  then  con 
tinued,  in  a  different  tone  : 

"To-day  the  lawyer  came  and  made  my 
will.  I  have  n't  much  — just  this  little  house, 
a  small  income  paid  semi-annually,  and  my — 


:be  Secret 

aufc tbe 
S>ream 


234 


XavenOec  anO  ©l&  Xace 


tCbc  Secret 
and  tbe 


my  things.  All  my  things  are  for  you  —  the 
house  and  the  income  are  for  —  for  him." 

Ruth  was  crying  softly  and  Miss  Ainslie 
went  to  her,  laying  her  hand  caressingly  upon 
the  bowed  head.  "Don't,  deary,"  she  plead 
ed,  "  don't  be  unhappy.  I  'm  not  afraid.  I  'm 
just  going  to  sleep,  that 's  all,  to  wake  in  im 
mortal  dawn.  I  want  you  and  him  to  have 
my  things,  because  I  love  you — because  I  Ve 
always  loved  you,  and  because  I  will — even 
afterward." 

Ruth  choked  down  her  sobs,  and  Miss 
Ainslie  drew  her  chair  closer,  taking  the  girl's 
cold  hand  in  hers.  That  touch,  so  strong  and 
gentle,  that  had  always  brought  balm  to  her 
troubled  spirit,  did  not  fail  in  its  ministry  now. 

"  He  went  away,"  said  Miss  Ainslie,  after  a 
long  silence,  as  if  in  continuation  of  some 
thing  she  had  said  before,  "and  I  was  afraid. 
He  had  made  many  voyages  in  safety,  each 
one  more  successful  than  the  last,  and  he  al 
ways  brought  me  beautiful  things,  but,  this 
time,  I  knew  that  it  was  not  right  for  him 
to  go." 

"When  he  came  back,  we  were  to  be  mar 
ried."  The  firelight  shone  on  the  amethyst 
ring  as  Miss  Ainslie  moved  it  on  her  finger. 


TIbe  Secret  anfc  tbe  Dream 


235 


"  He  said  that  he  would  have  no  way  of  writ 
ing  this  time,  but  that,  if  anything  happened, 
I  would  know.  I  was  to  wait — as  women 
have  waited  since  the  world  began. 

"Oh,  Ruth,  do  you  know  what  waiting 
means  ?  Mine  has  lasted  through  thirty-three 
interminable  years.  Each  day,  I  have  said: 
'he  will  come  to-morrow.'  When  the  last 
train  came  in,  I  put  the  light  in  the  window  to 
lead  him  straight  to  me.  Each  day,  I  have 
made  the  house  ready  for  an  invited  guest 
and  1  have  n't  gone  away,  even  for  an  hour. 
I  could  n't  bear  to  have  him  come  and  find  no 
welcome  waiting,  and  I  have  always  worn 
the  colour  he  loved.  When  people  have  come 
to  see  me,  I  Ve  always  been  afraid  they  would 
stay  until  he  came,  except  with  you — and 
Carl.  I  was  glad  to  have  you  come  to  stay  with 
me,  because,  lately,  I  have  thought  that  it 
would  be  more — more  delicate  than  to  have 
him  find  me  alone.  I  loved  you,  too,  dear," 
she  added  quickly. 

"I — I  asked  your  aunt  to  keep  the  light  in 
the  window.  I  never  told  her  why,  but  I  think 
she  knew,  and  you  must  tell  her,  dear,  the 
next  time  you  see  her,  that  I  thank  her,  and 
that  she  need  never  do  it  again.  I  thought,  if 


Tlbe  Secret 
and  tbc 

Dream 


236 


Xaven&er  ant)  ©ID  Xace 


tlbe  Secret 
mtC tbe 
Dream 


he  should  come  in  a  storm,  or,  perhaps,  sail 
by,  on  his  way  to  me— 

There  was  another  long  silence,  then,  with 
an  effort,  she  went  on.  "I  have  been  happy, 
for  he  said  he  wanted  me  to  be,  though  some 
times  it  was  hard.  As  nearly  as  I  could,  I 
made  my  dream  real.  I  have  thought,  for 
hours,  of  the  things  we  would  say  to  each 
other  when  the  long  years  were  over 
and  we  were  together  again.  I  have  dressed 
for  his  eyes  alone,  and  loved  him — perhaps 
you  know 

"I  know,  Miss  Ainslie,"  said  Ruth,  softly, 
her  own  love  surging  in  her  heart,  "  I  know." 

"He  loved  me,  Ruth,"  she  said,  lingering 
upon  the  words,  "as  man  never  loved  before. 
In  all  of  God's  great  universe,  there  was  never 
anything  like  that — even  in  Heaven,  there 
can't  be  anything  so  beautiful,  though  we 
have  to  know  human  love  before  we  can  un 
derstand  God's.  All  day,  I  have  dreamed  of 
our  little  home  together,  and  at  night,  some 
times — of  baby  lips  against  my  breast.  I 
could  always  see  him  plainly,  but  I  never 
could  see  our — our  child.  I  have  missed  that. 
I  have  had  more  happiness  than  comes  to 
most  women,  but  that  has  been  denied  me." 


Ube  Secret  an&  tbe  SDream 


237 


She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  closed  her 
eyes.  Her  lips  were  white  and  quivering,  but 
there  were  no  tears.  At  length  she  sat  up 
right  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  Ruth. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  anything,"  she  said  in 
a  strange  tone,  "  poverty  or  sickness  or  death, 
or  any  suffering  God  will  let  you  bear  to 
gether.  That  is  n't  love — to  be  afraid.  There  's 
only  one  thing — the  years  !  Oh,  God,  the 
bitter,  cruel,  endless  years!  " 

Miss  Ainslie  caught  her  breath  and  it 
sounded  like  a  sob,  but  she  bravely  kept  it 
back.  "I  have  been  happy," she  said,  in  piti 
ful  triumph;  "  I  promised  him  that  I  would  be, 
and  I  have  kept  my  word.  Sometimes  it 
was  hard,  but  I  had  my  dream.  Lately,  this 
last  year,  I  have  often  been  afraid  that — that 
something  had  happened.  Thirty-three  years, 
and  you  know,  dear,"  she  added,  with  a 
quaint  primness,  "that  I  am  a  woman  of  the 
world." 

"  In  the  world,  but  not  of  it,"  was  on  Ruth's 
lips,  but  she  did  not  say  it. 

"Still,  I  know  it  was  wrong  to  doubt  him — 
I  could  n't,  when  I  thought  of  our  last  hour  to 
gether,  out  on  the  hill  in  the  moonlight.  He 
said  it  was  conceivable  that  life  might  keep 


Ube  Secret 
an&  tb« 
Bream 


238 


Xavenfcer  ant)  <S>lb  Xace 


ICbc  Secret 
an&  tbc 
IDrcam 


him  from  me,  but  death  never  could.  He  told 
me  that  if  he  died,  I  would  know,  that  he 
would  come  and  tell  me,  and  that  in  a  little 
while  afterward,  we  should  be  together." 

The  dying  embers  cast  a  glow  upon  her  face. 
It  was  almost  waxen  in  its  purity;  she  seemed 
transfigured  with  the  light  of  another  world. 

"Last  night,  he  came  to  me  —  in  a  dream. 
He  is  dead — he  has  been  dead  for  a  long 
time.  He  was  trying  to  explain  something  to 
me  —  I  suppose  he  was  trying  to  tell  me  why 
he  had  not  come  before.  He  was  old  —  an 
old  man,  Ruth,  and  I  have  always  thought  of 
him  as  young.  He  could  not  say  anything 
but  my  name  —  '  Mary  —  Abby  —  Mary  - 
Abby  — '  over  and  over  again;  and,  once, 
'mother.'  I  was  christened  'Mary  Abigail,' 
but  I  never  liked  the  middle  name,  so  I 
dropped  it;  and  he  used  to  tease  me  some 
times  by  calling  me  'Abby.'  And  —  from 
his  saying  'mother,'  I  know  that  he,  too, 
wherever  he  may  be,  has  had  that  dream  of 
—  of  our  child." 

Ruth  was  cold  from  head  to  foot,  and  her 
senses  reeled.  Every  word  that  Winfield  had 
said  in  the  morning  sounded  again  in  her  ears. 
What  was  it  that  went  on  around  her,  of 


Secret  ant>  tbe  Bream 


239 


which  she  had  no  ken  ?  It  seemed  as  though 
she  stood  absolutely  alone,  in  endless  space, 
while  planets  swept  past,  out  of  their  orbits, 
with  all  the  laws  of  force  set  suddenly  aside. 

Miss  Ainslie  felt  her  shuddering  fear. 
"Don't  be  afraid,  dear,"  she  said  again, 
"everything  is  right.  I  kept  my  promise,  and 
he  kept  his.  He  is  suffering  —  he  is  very 
lonely  without  me;  but  in  a  little  while  we 
shall  be  together." 

The  fire  died  out  and  left  the  room  in  dark 
ness,  broken  only  by  the  last  fitful  glow. 
Ruth  could  not  speak,  and  Miss  Ainslie  sat 
quietly  in  her  chair.  "Come,"  she  said  at 
last,  stretching  out  her  hand,  "let  's  go  up 
stairs.  I  have  kept  you  up,  deary,  and  I 
know  you  must  be  very  tired." 

The  house  seemed  filled  with  a  shadowy 
presence  —  something  intangible,  but  por 
tentous,  for  both  good  and  ill.  Ruth  took 
down  the  heavy  mass  of  white  hair  and 
brushed  it  back,  tying  it  at  the  neck  with  a 
ribbon,  in  girlish  fashion,  as  Miss  Ainslie 
always  did.  Her  night  gown,  of  sheerest 
linen,  was  heavy  with  Valenciennes  lace,  and 
where  it  fell  back  from  her  throat,  it  revealed 
the  flesh,  exquisitely  white,  set  in  gracious 


Ube  Secret 
and  tbe 
ZDream 


240 


Xavenfcer  anfc  ®U>  Xace 


Ubc  Secret 
an&  tbe 
S)ream 


curves  and  womanly  softness,  as  if  by  a 
sculptor  who  loved  his  clay. 

The  sweet,  wholesome  scent  of  the  lavender 
flowers  breathed  from  the  folds  of  Miss 
Ainslie's  gown,  as  she  stood  there  in  the 
candle  light,  smiling,  with  the  unearthly  glow 
still  upon  her  face. 

"Good  night,  deary,"  she  said;  "you'll 
kiss  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

For  a  moment  the  girl's  face  was  buried 
among  Miss  Ainslie's  laces,  then  their  lips 
met.  Ruth  was  trembling  and  she  hurried 
away,  swallowing  the  lump  in  her  throat  and 
trying  to  keep  back  the  tears. 

The  doors  were  open,  and  there  was  no 
sound  save  Miss  Ainslie's  deep  breathing,  but 
Ruth  kept  a  dreary  vigil  till  almost  dawn. 


241 


XVI 

Some  <§>ne  Mbo  Xovefc  "fiber 

THE  summer  waned  and  each  day,  as  it 
slipped  away,  took  a  little  of  Miss 
Ainslie's  strength  with  it.  There  was  neither 
disease  nor  pain  —  it  was  simply  a  letting  go. 
Carl  sent  to  the  city  for  a  physician  of  wide 
repute,  but  he  shook  his  head.  "  There  's 
nothing  the  matter  with  her,"  he  said,  "but 
she  does  n't  want  to  live.  Just  keep  her  as 
happy  as  you  can." 

For  a  time  she  went  about  the  house  as 
usual,  but,  gradually,  more  and  more  of  her 
duties  fell  to  Ruth.  Hepsey  came  in  every 
day  after  breakfast,  and  again  in  the  late 
afternoon. 

Ruth  tried  to  get  her  to  go  out  for  a  drive, 
but  she  refused.  "No,  deary,"  she  said, 
smiling,  "  I  've  never  been  away,  and  I  'm  too 
old  to  begin  now."  Neighbours,  hearing  of 
her  illness,  came  to  offer  sympathy  and  help, 


Some  One 

lUbo 
Uovc6  ibec 


242 


anfc 


3Lace 


leomc  ®ne 

IQbo 
Sloveb  t»cc 


but  she  would  see  none  of  them  —  not  even 
Aunt  Jane. 

One  night,  she  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  as 
usual;  for  she  would  not  surrender  her  place  as 
hostess,  even  though  she  ate  nothing,  and  after 
ward  a  great  weakness  came  upon  her.  "I 
don't  know  how  I  '11  ever  get  upstairs,"  she 
said,  frightened ;  "  it  seems  such  a  long  way ! " 

Winfield  took  her  in  his  arms  and  carried 
her  up,  as  gently  and  easily  as  if  she  had  been 
a  child.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her 
eyes  bright  when  he  put  her  down.  "  I 
never  thought  it  would  be  so  easy,"  she  said, 
in  answer  to  his  question.  "You  '11  stay 
with  me,  won't  you,  Carl  ?  I  don't  want 
you  to  go  away." 

"I'll  stay  as  long  as  you  want  me,  Miss 
Ainslie,  and  Ruth  will,  too.  We  could  n't  do 
too  much  for  you." 

That  night,  as  they  sat  in  front  of  the  fire, 
while  Miss  Ainslie  slept  upstairs,  Ruth  told 
him  what  she  had  said  about  leaving  him  the 
house  and  the  little  income  and  giving  her  the 
beautiful  things  in  the  house. 

"Bless  her  sweet  heart,"  he  said  tenderly, 
"we  don't  want  her  things  —  we'd  rather 
have  her." 


Some  ®rte  IJdbo 


t>er 


243 


"Indeed  we  would,"  she  answered 
quickly. 

Until  the'fniddle  of  September  she  went 
back  and  forth  from  her  own  room  to  the  sit 
ting-room  with  comparative  ease.  They 
took  turns  bringing  dainties  to  tempt  her  ap 
petite,  but,  though  she  ate  a  little  of  every 
thing  and  praised  it  warmly,  especially  if 
Ruth  had  made  it,  she  did  it,  evidently,  only 
out  of  consideration  for  them. 

She  read  a  little,  talked  a  little,  and  slept  a 
great  deal.  One  day  she  asked  Carl  to  pull 
the  heavy  sandal  wood  chest  over  near  her 
chair,  and  give  her  the  key,  which  hung  be 
hind  a  picture. 

"Will  you  please  go  away  now,"  she 
asked,  with  a  winning  smile,  "for  just  a 
little  while  ?  " 

He  put  the  bell  on  a  table  within  her  reach 
and  asked  her  to  ring  if  she  wanted  anything. 
The  hours  went  by  and  there  was  no  sound. 
At  last  he  went  up,  very  quietly,  and  found 
her  asleep.  The  chest  was  locked  and  the 
key  was  not  to  be  found.  He  did  not  know 
whether  she  had  opened  it  or  not,  but  she  let 
him  put  it  in  its  place  again,  without  a  word. 

Sometimes  they  read  to  her,  and  she  lis- 


Some  One 

•QUbo 
iovc6  Ibcr 


244 


anfc 


Some  ©ne 

Wbo 
%ovet>  fbev 


tened  patiently,  occasionally  asking  a  ques 
tion,  but  more  often  falling  asleep. 

"I  wish,"  she  said  one  day,  when  she  was 
alone  with  Carl,  "that  I  could  hear  some 
thing  you  had  written." 

"Why,  Miss  Ainslie,"  he  exclaimed,  in 
astonishment,  "you  would 'nt  be  interested 
in  the  things  I  write  —  it  's  only  newspaper 
stuff." 

"Yes,  I  would,"  she  answered  softly; 
"  yes  I  would." 

Something  in  the  way  she  said  it  brought 
the  mist  to  his  eyes. 

She  liked  to  have  Ruth  brush  her  hair,  but 
her  greatest  delight  was  in  hearing  Winfield 
talk  about  her  treasures. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  about  the  rug,  Carl, 
the  one  on  the  sandal  wood  chest  ? "  she 
asked,  for  the  twentieth  time. 

"It's  hundreds  of  years  old,"  he  began, 
"  and  it  came  from  Persia,  far,  far  beyond  the 
sea.  The  shepherds  watched  their  flocks 
night  and  day,  and  saved  the  finest  fleeces 
for  the  rug.  They  made  colour  from  flowers 
and  sweet  herbs;  from  strange  things  that 
grew  on  the  mountain  heights,  where  only 
the  bravest  dared  to  go.  The  sumac  that 


Some  ©ne  Mbo  Xox>eD  Iber 


245 


flamed  on  the  hills,  the  rind  of  the  swaying 
pomegranates,  lichens  that  grew  on  the  rocks 
by  the  Eastern  sea,  berries,  deep-sea  trea 
sures,  vine  leaves,  the  juice  of  the  grape  — 
they  all  made  colours  for  the  rug,  and  then 
ripened,  like  old  wine. 

"After  a  long  time,  when  everything  was 
ready,  the  Master  Craftsman  made  the  de 
sign,  writing  strange  symbols  into  the 
margin,  eloquent  with  hidden  meanings,  that 
only  the  wisest  may  understand. 

"They  all  worked  upon  it,  men  and 
women  and  children.  Deep  voices  sang  love 
songs  and  the  melody  was  woven  into  the 
rug.  Soft  eyes  looked  love  in  answer  and 
the  softness  and  beauty  went  in  with  the 
fibre.  Baby  fingers  clutched  at  it  and  were 
laughingly  untangled.  At  night,  when  the 
fires  of  the  village  were  lighted,  and  the  crimson 
glow  was  reflected  upon  it,  strange  tales  of 
love  and  war  were  mingled  with  the  thread. 

"The  nightingale  sang  into  it,  the  roses 
from  Persian  gardens  breathed  upon  it,  the 
moonlight  put  witchery  into  it;  the  tinkle  of 
the  gold  and  silver  on  the  women's  dusky 
ankles,  the  scent  of  sandal  wood  and  attar  of 
rose  —  it  all  went  into  the  rug. 


Some  ©ne 

HOI  bo 
*ovei>  Iber 


246 


3La\>enfcer  anfc 


OLace 


Some  ®ne 
%ove5  Ixt 


"Poets  repeated  their  verses  to  it,  men 
knelt  near  it  to  say  their  prayers,  and  the  soft 
wind,  rising  from  the  sea,  made  faintest 
music  among  the  threads. 

"Sometimes  a  workman  made  a  mistake, 
and  the  Master  Craftsman  put  him  aside. 
Often,  the  patient  fingers  stopped  weaving 
forever,  and  they  found  some  one  else  to  go 
on  with  it.  Sometimes  they  went  from  one 
place  to  another,  but  the  frame  holding  the 
rug  was  not  injured.  From  mountain  to 
valley  and  back  again,  urged  by  some  strange 
instinct,  past  flowing  rivers  and  over  the 
golden  sands  of  the  desert,  even  to  the  deep 
blue  waters  that  broke  on  the  shore  —  they 
took  the  rug. 

"The  hoof-beats  of  Arabian  horses,  with 
white-robed  Bedouins  flashing  their  swords; 
all  the  glitter  and  splendour  of  war  were 
woven  into  it.  Songs  of  victory,  the  rush  of  a 
cavalry  charge,  the  faith  of  a  dying  warrior, 
even  the  slow  marches  of  defeat — it  all  went 
into  the  rug. 

"Perhaps  the  Master  Craftsman  died,  but 
the  design  was  left,  and  willing  fingers  toiled 
upon  it,  through  the  long  years,  each  day 
putting  new  beauty  into  it  and  new  dreams. 


Some  ©ue  Mbo  Xovefc  1bec 


247 


Then,  one  day,  the  final  knot  was  tied,  by  a 
Veiled  Lady,  who  sighed  softly  in  the  pauses 
of  her  song,  and  wondered  at  its  surpassing 
loveliness." 

"  And — "  said  Miss  Ainslie,  gently. 

"Some  one  who  loved  you  brought  it  to 
you." 

"Yes,"  she  repeated,  smiling,  "some  one 
who  loved  me.  Tell  me  about  this,"  she 
pleaded,  touching  a  vase  of  Cloisonne. 

"  It  came  from  Japan,"  he  said,  "a  strange 
world  of  people  like  those  painted  on  a  fan. 
The  streets  are  narrow  and  there  are  quaint 
houses  on  either  side.  The  little  ladies  flit 
about  in  gay  attire,  like  so  many  butterflies — 
they  wear  queer  shoes  on  their  dainty  feet. 
They're  as  sweet  as  their  own  cherry  blos 
soms. 

"The  little  man  who  made  this  vase,  wore 
a  blue  tunic  and  had  no  robes  of  state,  because 
he  was  poor.  He  loved  the  daughter  of  a 
nobleman  and  she  loved  him,  too,  though 
neither  dared  to  say  so. 

"So  he  sat  in  front  of  his  house  and  worked 
on  this  vase.  He  made  a  model  of  clay, 
shaping  it  with  his  fingers  until  it  was  per 
fect.  Then  a  silver  vase  was  cast  from  it  and 


Some  ©nc 

Ulbo 
loves  fjer 


248 


Xavenfcer  an&  ©It)  OLace 


Some  <S>nt 
Uovefc  t>ec 


over  and  over  it  he  went,  very  carefully,  mak 
ing  a  design  with  flat,  silver  wire.  When  he 
was  satisfied  with  it,  he  filled  it  in  with 
enamel  in  wonderful  colours,  making  even 
the  spots  on  the  butterflies'  wings  like  those 
he  had  seen  in  the  fields.  Outside  the  design, 
he  covered  the  vase  with  dark  enamel,  so  the 
bright  colours  would  show. 

"As  he  worked,  the  little  lady  he  loved 
came  and  watched  him  sometimes  for  a  mo 
ment  or  two,  and  then  he  put  a  tiny  bit  of 
gold  into  the  vase.  He  put  a  flower  into  the 
design,  like  those  she  wore  in  her  hair,  and 
then  another,  like  the  one  she  dropped  at  his 
feet  one  day,  when  no  one  was  looking. 

"  The  artist  put  all  his  love  into  the  vase, 
and  he  hoped  that  when  it  was  done,  he 
could  obtain  a  Court  position.  He  was  very 
patient  with  the  countless  polishings,  and  one 
afternoon,  when  the  air  was  sweet  with  the 
odour  of  the  cherry  blossoms,  the  last  touches 
were  put  upon  it. 

"  It  was  so  beautiful  that  he  was  commis 
sioned  to  make  some  great  vases  for  the 
throne  room,  and  then,  with  joy  in  his  heart, 
he  sought  the  hand  of  the  nobleman's  daugh 
ter. 


Some  ©ne  Mbo  Xot>eo  1ber 


249 


"The  negotiations  were  conducted  by  an 
other  person,  and  she  was  forced  to  consent, 
though  her  heart  ached  for  the  artist  in 
the  blue  tunic,  whose  name  she  did  not 
know.  When  she  learned  that  her  husband 
was  to  be  the  man  she  had  loved  for  so  long, 
tears  of  happiness  came  into  her  dark  eyes. 

"The  vase  had  disappeared,  mysteriously, 
and  he  offered  a  large  reward  for  its  recovery. 
At  last  they  were  compelled  to  give  up  the 
hope  of  finding  it,  and  he  promised  to  make 
her  another  one,  just  like  it,  with  the  same 
flowers  and  butterflies  and  even  the  little 
glints  of  gold  that  marked  the  days  she  came. 
So  she  watched  him,  while  he  made  the  new 
one,  and  even  more  love  went  into  it  than 
into  the  first  one." 

"And — "  began  Miss  Ainslie. 

"Some  one  who  loved  you  brought  it  to 
you." 

"Yes,"  she  repeated,  smiling,  "some  one 
who  loved  me." 

Winfield  fitted  a  story  to  every  object  in  the 
room.  Each  rug  had  a  different  history  and 
every  bit  of  tapestry  its  own  tale.  He  con 
jured  up  an  Empress  who  had  once  owned 
the  teakwood  chair,  and  a  Marquise,  with 


Some  One 

Xfflbo 
loved  Tbct 


250 


Xaven&er  anfc  ©lt>  QLace 


Some  One 
IClbo 
t>er 


patches  and  powdered  hair,  who  wrote  love 
letters  at  the  marquetry  table. 

He  told  stories  of  the  sea  shells,  and  of  the 
mermaids  who  brought  them  to  the  shore, 
that  some  one  who  loved  her  might  take  them 
to  her,  and  that  the  soft  sound  of  the  sea 
might  always  come  to  her  ears,  with  visions 
of  blue  skies  and  tropic  islands,  where  the  sun 
forever  shone. 

The  Empress  and  the  Marquise  became  real 
people  to  Miss  Ainslie,  and  the  Japanese 
lovers  seemed  to  smile  at  her  from  the  vase. 
Sometimes,  holding  the  rug  on  her  lap,  she 
would  tell  them  how  it  was  woven,  and  re 
peat  the  love  story  of  a  beautiful  woman  who 
had  worked  upon  the  tapestry.  Often,  in 
the  twilight,  she  would  sing  softly  to  her 
self,  snatches  of  forgotten  melodies,  and, 
once,  a  lullaby.  Ruth  and  Carl  sat  by, 
watching  for  the  slightest  change,  but  she 
never  spoke  of  the  secret  in  her  heart. 

Ruth  had  the  north  room,  across  the  hall, 
where  there  were  two  dressers.  One  of 
them  had  been  empty,  until  she  put  her 
things  into  it,  and  the  other  was  locked.  She 
found  the  key,  one  day,  hanging  behind  it, 
when  she  needed  some  things  for  Miss  Ainslie. 


Some  ©ne  Wbo  Xovefc  1ber 


251 


As  she  had  half  expected,  the  dresser  was 
full  of  lingerie,  of  the  finest  lawn  and  linen. 
The  dainty  garments  were  edged  with  real 
lace  —  Brussels,  Valenciennes,  Mechlin,  Point 
d'Alencon,  and  the  fine  Irish  laces.  Some 
times  there  was  a  cluster  of  tucks,  daintily 
run  by  hand,  but,  usually,  only  the  lace,  un 
less  there  was  a  bit  of  insertion  to  match. 
The  buttons  were  mother  of  pearl,  and  the 
button  holes  were  exquisitely  made.  One  or 
two  of  the  garments  were  threaded  with 
white  ribbon,  after  a  more  modern  fashion, 
but  most  of  them  were  made  according  to  the 
quaint  old  patterns.  There  was  a  dozen  of 
everything. 

The  dried  lavender  flowers  rustled  faintly 
as  Ruth  reverently  lifted  the  garments,  giving 
out  the  long-stored  sweetness  of  Summers 
gone  by.  The  white  had  changed  to  an 
ivory  tint,  growing  deeper  every  day.  There 
were  eleven  night  gowns,  all  made  exactly 
alike,  with  high  neck  and  long  sleeves, 
trimmed  with  tucks  and  lace.  Only  one  was 
in  any  way  elaborate.  The  sleeves  were 
short,  evidently  just  above  the  elbow,  and 
the  neck  was  cut  off  the  shoulders  like  a  ball 
gown.  A  deep  frill  of  Venetian  point,  with 


Some  ©ne 
TOlbo 


252 


Xavenfcer  artf>  ©ID  Xace 


Some  ©»« 
TBUbo 
Dec 


narrower  lace  at  the  sleeves,  of  the  same  pat 
tern,  was  the  only  trimming,  except  a  tiny 
bow  of  lavender  ribbon  at  the  fastening, 
pinned  on  with  a  little  gold  heart. 

When  Ruth  went  in,  with  one  of  the  night 
gowns  over  her  arm,  a  faint  colour  came  into 
Miss  Ainslie's  cheeks. 

"Did  —  did  —  you  find  those?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  answered  Ruth,  "I  thought  you'd 
like  to  wear  them." 

Miss  Ainslie's  colour  faded  and  it  was  some 
time  before  she  spoke  again. 

"Did  —  did  you  find  the  other  —  the  one 
with  Venetian  point?" 

"  Yes,  Miss  Ainslie,  do  you  want  that  one  ? 
It 's  beautiful." 

"No,"  she  said,  "not  now,  but  I  thought  that 
I  'd  like  to  wear  that  —  afterward,  you  know." 

A  shadow  crossed  Ruth's  face  and  her  lips 
tightened. 

"Don't,  dear,"  said  Miss  Ainslie,  gently. 
"  Do  you  think  he  would  think  it  was  indeli 
cate  if — if  my  neck  were  bare  then?" 

"Who,  Miss  Ainslie  ?" 

"  Carl.  Would  he  think  it  was  wrong  if  I 
wore  that  afterward,  and  my  neck  and  shoul 
ders  showed  ?  Do  you  think  he  would  ?" 


Some  ©ne  "CSlbo  3Lov>e&  E>er 


253 


"No!"  cried  Ruth,  "  I  know  he  wouldn't  ! 
Oh,  Miss  Ainslie,  you  break  my  heart!" 

"Ruth, "said  Miss  Ainslie,  gently;  "Ruth, 
dear,  don't  cry!  I  won't  talk  about  it  any 
more,  deary,  I  promise  you,  but  I  wanted  to 
know  so  much!  " 

Ruth  kissed  her  and  went  away,  unable  to 
bear  more  just  then.  She  brought  her  chair 
into  the  hall,  to  be  near  her  if  she  were 
needed.  Miss  Ainslie  sighed,  and  then  began 
to  croon  a  lullaby. 


cmc  One 

IBbo 

ovcfc  Tbci 


254 


XVII 

Bavon 

Dawn  A  S  Miss  Ainslie  became  weaker,  she  clung 

-tV  to  Carl,  and  was  never  satisfied  when 
he  was  out  of  her  sight.  When  she  was 
settled  in  bed  for  the  night,  he  went  in  to  sit 
by  her  and  hold  her  hand  until  she  dropped 
asleep.  If  she  woke  during  the  night  she 
would  call  Ruth  and  ask  where  he  was. 

"  He  '11  come  over  in  the  morning,  Miss 
Ainslie,"  Ruth  always  said;  "you  know  it's 
night  now." 

"  Is  it  ? "  she  would  ask,  drowsily.  "I  must 
go  to  sleep,  then,  deary,  so  that  I  may  be 
quite  rested  and  refreshed  when  he  comes." 

Her  room,  in  contrast  to  the  rest  of  the 
house,  was  almost  Puritan  in  its  simplicity. 
The  bed  and  dresser  were  mahogany,  plain, 
but  highly  polished,  and  she  had  a  mahogany 
rocker  with  a  cushion  of  old  blue  tapestry. 
There  was  a  simple  white  cover  on  the  bed 


Dawn  255 

and  another  on  the  dresser,  but  the  walls 
were  dead  white,  unrelieved  by  pictures  or 
draperies.  In  the  east  window  was  a  long, 
narrow  footstool,  and  a  prayer  book  and 
hymnal  lay  on  the  window  sill,  where  this 
maiden  of  half  a  century,  looking  seaward, 
knelt  to  say  her  prayers. 

One  morning,  when  Ruth  went  in,  she 
said:  "I  think  I  won't  get  up  this  morning, 
dear;  I  am  so  very  tired.  If  Carl  should 
come  over,  will  you  say  that  I  should  like  to 
see  him  ?  " 

She  would  see  no  one  but  Carl  and  Ruth, 
and  Mrs.  Ball  was  much  offended  because  her 
friend  did  not  want  her  to  come  upstairs. 
"Don't  be  harsh  with  her,  Aunt  Jane," 
pleaded  Ruth,  "you  know  people  often  have 
strange  fancies  when  they  are  ill.  She  sent 
her  love  to  you,  and  asked  me  to  say  that  she 
thanked  you,  but  you  need  not  put  the  light 
in  the  attic  window  any  more." 

Mrs.  Ball  gazed  at  her  niece  long  and 
earnestly.  "Be  you  tellin'  me  the  truth?" 
she  asked. 

"Why,  of  course,  Aunty." 

"Then  Mary  Ainslie  has  got  sense  from 
somewheres.  There  ain't  never  been  no  need 


256  %av>ent>er  an&  ©l&  Xace 

for  that  lamp  to  set  in  the  winder;  and  when 
she  gets  more  sense,  I  reckon  she  '11  be  willin' 
to  see  her  friends."  With  evident  relief  upon 
her  face,  Mrs.  Ball  departed. 

But  Miss  Ainslie  seemed  quite  satisfied,  and 
each  day  spoke  more  lovingly  to  Ruth  and 
Carl.  He  showed  no  signs  of  impatience,  but 
spent  his  days  with  her  cheerfully.  He  read 
to  her,  held  her  hand,  and  told  her  about  the 
rug,  the  Marquise,  and  the  Japanese  lovers. 
At  the  end  she  would  always  say,  with  a 
quiet  tenderness:  "and  some  one  who  loved 
me  brought  it  to  me!  " 

"Yes,  Miss  Ainslie;  some  one  who  loved 
you.  Everybody  loves  you;  don't  you  know 
that?" 

"Do  you?"  she  asked  once,  suddenly  and 
yet  shyly. 

"Indeed  I  do,  Miss  Ainslie  —  I  love  you 
with  all  my  heart." 

She  smiled  happily  and  her  eyes  filled. 
"Ruth,"  she  called  softly,  "he  says  he  loves 
me! " 

"Of  course  he  does,"  said  Ruth;  "nobody 
in  the  wide  world  could  help  loving  you." 

She  put  out  her  left  hand  to  touch  Ruth, 
and  the  amethyst  ring  slipped  off,  for  her 


Dawn 

fingers  were  thin.  She  did  not  seem  to  notice 
when  Ruth  slipped  it  on  again,  and,  shortly 
afterward,  fell  asleep. 

That  night  Winfield  stayed  very  late.  "I 
don't  want  to  leave  you,  dear,"  he  said  to 
Ruth.  "I'm  afraid  something  is  going  to 
happen." 

"I  'm   not  afraid  —  I  think  you  'd  better 

go-" 

"Will  you  put  a  light  in  your  window  if 
you  want  me,  darling?" 

"Yes,  I  will." 

"1  can  see  it  from  my  room,  and  I  '11  be 
watching  for  it.  If  you  want  me,  I  'II  come." 

He  awoke  from  an  uneasy  sleep  with  the 
feeling  that  Ruth  needed  him,  and  was  not 
surprised  to  see  the  light  from  her  candle 
streaming  out  into  the  darkness.  He  dressed 
hurriedly,  glancing  at  his  watch  by  the  light 
of  a  match.  It  was  just  three  o'clock. 

Ruth  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  lower 
door.  "  Is  she  —  is  she  —  " 

"No,  she  seems  to  be  just  the  same,  but 
she  wants  you.  She  's  been  calling  for  you 
ever  since  you  went  away." 

As  they  went  upstairs  Miss  Ainslie's  sweet 
voice  came  to  them  in  pitiful  pleading  : 


258  Xavenfcer  ant)  <S>R)  Xace 

s>awn  "Carl,  Carl,  dear  !  Where  are  you  ?  I 
want  you! " 

"I  'm  here,  Miss  Ainslie,"  he  said,  sitting 
down  on  the  bed  beside  her  and  taking  her 
hot  hands  in  his.  "What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

"Tell  me  about  the  rug." 

With  no  hint  of  weariness  in  his  deep, 
quiet  voice,  he  told  her  the  old  story  once 
more.  When  he  had  finished,  she  spoke 
again.  "I  can't  seem  to  get  it  just  right 
about  the  Japanese  lovers.  Were  they  mar 
ried?" 

"Yes,  they  were  married  and  lived  happily 
ever  afterward  —  like  the  people  in  the  fairy 
tales." 

"That  was  lovely, "she  said,  with  evident 
satisfaction.  "  Do  you  think  they  wanted  me 
to  have  their  vase  ?" 

"I  know  they  did.  Some  one  who  loved 
you  brought  it  to  you.  Everybody  loves  you, 
Miss  Ainslie." 

"  Did  the  Marquise  find  her  lover  ?  " 

"Yes,  or  rather,  he  found  her." 

"Did  they  want  me  to  have  their  mar 
quetry  table  ?  " 

"  Of  course  they  did.  Did  n't  some  one 
who  loved  you  bring  it  to  you  ? " 


Dawn 

"  Yes,"  she  sighed,  "  some  one  who  loved 
me." 

She  sang  a  little,  very  softly,  with  her  eyes 
closed.  It  was  a  quaint  old-fashioned  tune, 
with  a  refrain  of  "  Hush-a-by  "  and  he  held 
her  hand  until  the  song  ceased  and  she  was 
asleep.  Then  he  went  over  to  Ruth.  "Can't 
you  go  to  sleep  for  a  little  while,  dearest  ?  I 
know  you  're  tired." 

"I  'm  never  tired  when  I  'm  with  you," 
Ruth  answered,  leaning  upon  his  arm,  "  and 
besides,  I  feel  that  this  is  the  end." 

Miss  Ainslie  slept  for  some  time,  then,  all 
at  once,  she  started  as  if  in  terror.  "  Letters," 
she  said,  very  distinctly,  "Go!" 

He  went  to  her  and  tried  to  soothe  her,  but 
failed.  "No,"  she  said  again,  "letters — Ruth 
— chest." 

"  She  wants  some  letters  that  are  in  the 
sandal  wood  chest,"  he  said  to  Ruth,  and  Miss 
Ainslie  nodded.  "Yes,"  she  repeated,  "let 
ters." 

Ruth  went  into  the  sitting-room,  where  a 
light  was  burning  dimly,  but  the  chest  was 
locked.  "Do  you  know  where  the  key  is, 
Carl? "she  asked,  coming  back  for  a  mo 
ment. 


260  %ax>enfcer  anfc  ©R>  3Lace 

"No,  I  don't,  dear, "  he  answered.  Then 
he  asked  Miss  Ainslie  where  the  key  was,  but 
she  only  murmured  :  "letters." 

"Shall  I  go  and  help  Ruth  find  them  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  help — letters." 

Together,  they  broke  open  the  lock  of  the 
chest,  while  Miss  Ainslie  was  calling,  faintly : 
"Carl,  Carl,  dear!  Where  are  you?  I  want 
you  !  " 

"We'd  better  turn  the  whole  thing  out  on 
the  floor,"  he  said,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word,  then  put  it  back  against  the  wall, 
empty. 

"We  '11  have  to  shake  everything  out,  care 
fully,"  returned  Ruth,  "that 's  the  only  way  to 
find  them." 

Wrapped  carefully  in  a  fine  linen  sheet,  was 
Miss  Ainslie's  wedding  gown,  of  heavy  white 
satin,  trimmed  simply  with  priceless  Venetian 
point.  They  shook  it  out  hurriedly  and  put  it 
back  into  the  chest.  There  were  yards  upon 
yards  of  lavender  taffeta,  cut  into  dress  lengths, 
which  they  folded  up  and  put  away.  Three 
strings  of  amethysts  and  two  of  pearls  slipped 
out  of  the  silk  as  they  lifted  it,  and  there  was  an 
other  length  of  lustrous  white  taffeta,  which 
had  changed  to  an  ivory  tint. 


Four  shawls  of  Canton  crepe,  three  of  them 
lavender  and  one  ivory  white,  were  put  back 
into  the  chest.  There  were  several  fans,  of 
fine  workmanship,  a  girdle  of  oxidized  silver, 
set  with  amethysts  and  pearls,  and  a  large 
marquetry  box,  which  contained  tea. 

' '  That 's  all  the  large  things, "  he  said ;  ' '  now 
we  can  look  these  over." 

Ruth  was  gathering  up  great  quantities  of 
lace — Brussels,  Point  d'Alencon,  Cluny,  Mech 
lin,  Valenciennes,  Duchesse  and  Venetian 
point.  There  was  a  bridal  veil  of  the  Vene 
tian  lace,  evidently  made  to  match  that  on  the 
gown.  Tiny,  dried  petals  rustled  out  of  the 
meshes,  for  Miss  Ainslie's  laces  were  laid 
away  in  lavender,  like  her  love. 

"I  don't  see  them,"  she  said,  "yes,  here 
they  are."  She  gave  him  a  bundle  of  yellowed 
letters,  tied  with  lavender  ribbon. 

"I  '11  take  them  to  her,"  he  answered,  pick 
ing  up  a  small  black  case  that  lay  on  the  floor, 
and  opening  it.  "Why,  Ruth!  "  he  gasped. 
"  It 's  my  father's  picture  !  " 

Miss  Ainslie's  voice  rose  again  in  pitiful 
cadence.  "Carl,  Carl,  dear!  Where  are 
you  ?  I  want  you — oh,  I  want  you  !  " 

He  hastened  to  her,  leaving  the  picture  in 


262  3La\>enDer  anfc  ©ID  3Lace 

Ruth's  hand.  It  was  an  ambrotype,  set  into 
a  case  lined  with  purple  velvet.  The  face  was 
that  of  a  young  man,  not  more  than  twenty- 
five  or  thirty,  who  looked  strangely  like  Win- 
field.  The  eyes,  forehead  and  the  poise  of 
the  head  were  the  same. 

The  earth  trembled  beneath  Ruth's  feet  for 
a  moment,  then,  all  at  once,  she  understood. 
The  light  in  the  attic  window,  the  marked 
paragraph  in  the  paper,  and  the  death  notices — 
why,  yes,  the  Charles  Winfield  who  had  mar 
ried  Abigail  Weatherby  was  Miss  Ainslie's 
lover,  and  Carl  was  his  son. 

"He  went  away!"  Miss  Ainslie's  voice 
came  again  to  Ruth,  when  she  told  her  story, 
with  no  hint  of  her  lover's  name.  He  went 
away,  and  soon  afterward,  married  Abigail 
Weatherby,  but  why  ?  Was  it  love  at  first 
sight,  or  did  he  believe  that  his  sweetheart  was 
dead  ?  Then  Carl  was  born  and  the  mother 
died.  Twelve  years  afterward,  he  followed  her 
—broken  hearted.  Carl  had  told  her  that  his  fa 
ther  could  not  bear  the  smell  of  lavender  nor  the 
sight  of  any  shade  of  purple — and  Miss  Ains- 
lie  always  wore  lavender  and  lived  in  the 
scent  of  it — had  he  come  to  shrink  from  it 
through  remorse  ? 


S>awn 

Why  was  it,  she  wondered?  Had  he  for 
gotten  Miss  Ainslie,  or  had  he  been  suddenly 
swept  off  his  feet  by  some  blind  whirlwind  of 
passion  ?  In  either  case,  memory  had  re 
turned  to  torture  him  a  thousand  fold  —  to 
make  him  ashamed  to  face  her,  with  his  boy 
in  his  arms. 

And  Aunt  Jane  knew  of  the  marriage,  at 
the  time,  probably,  and  said  no  word.  Then 
she  learned  of  Abigail  Weatherby's  death,  and 
was  still  silent,  hoping,  perhaps,  that  the 
wanderer  would  come  back,  until  she  learned 
that  Charles  Winfield,  too,  was  dead.  And 
still  she  had  not  told  Miss  Ainslie,  or,  pos 
sibly,  thought  she  knew  it  all  till  the  day  that 
Hepsey  had  spoken  of,  when  she  came  home, 
looking  "strange, "to  keep  the  light  in  the 
attic  window  every  night  for  more  than  five 
years. 

Was  it  kind  ?  Ruth  doubted  for  a  moment, 
then  her  heart  softened  with  love  for  Aunt 
Jane,  who  had  hidden  the  knowledge  that 
would  be  a  death  blow  to  Miss  Ainslie,  and 
let  her  live  on,  happy  in  her  dream,  while  the 
stern  Puritan  conscience  made  her  keep  the 
light  in  the  attic  window  in  fulfilment  of  her 
promise. 


anfc  ©to  Xace 


As  if  the  little  light  could  reach  the  veil 
which  hangs  between  us  and  Eternity,  or 
penetrate  the  greyness  which  never  parts  save 
for  a  passage!  As  if  all  Miss  Ainslie's  love 
and  faith  could  bring  the  dead  to  life  again, 
even  to  be  forgiven  ! 

Her  lips  quivered  when  she  thought  of  Miss 
Ainslie's  tenderness  for  Carl  and  the  little 
whispered  lullabies  that  she  sang  to  herself, 
over  and  over  again.  "She  does  not  know," 
thought  Ruth.  "Thank  God,  she  will  never 
know!" 

She  put  the  rest  of  the  things  into  the  chest 
and  closed  it,  covering  it,  as  before,  with  the 
rug  Miss  Ainslie  loved.  When  she  went  into 
the  other  room,  she  was  asleep  again,  with 
her  cheek  pillowed  on  the  letters,  while  Carl 
sat  beside  her,  holding  her  hand  and  ponder 
ing  over  the  mystery  he  could  not  explain. 
Ruth's  heart  ached  for  those  two,  so  strangely 
brought  together,  who  had  but  this  little  hour 
to  atone  for  a  lifetime  of  loss. 

The  first  faint  lines  of  light  came  into  the 
eastern  sky.  Ruth  stood  by  the  window, 
watching  the  colour  come  on  the  grey  above 
the  hill,  while  two  or  three  stars  still  shone 
dimly.  The  night  lamp  flickered,  then  went 


IDawn 

out.  She  set  it  in  the  hall  and  came  back  to 
the  window. 

As  Miss  Ainslie's  rug  had  been  woven, 
little  by  little,  purple,  crimson,  and  turquoise, 
gleaming  with  inward  fires,  shone  upon  the 
clouds.  Carl  came  over  to  Ruth,  putting  his 
arm  around  her.  They  watched  it  together 
—  that  miracle  which  is  as  old  as  the  world, 
and  yet  ever  new. 

"I  don't  see — "  he  began. 

"Hush,  dear,"  Ruth  whispered,  "I  know, 
and  I  '11  tell  you  some  time,  but  I  don't  want 
her  to  know." 

The  sky  brightened  slowly,  and  the  intense 
colour  came  into  the  room  with  the  light. 
Ruth  drew  the  curtains  aside,  saying,  in  a  low 
tone,  "it 's  beautiful,  is  n't  it?" 

There  was  a  sudden  movement  in  the  room 
and  they  turned,  to  see  Miss  Ainslie  sitting 
up,  her  cheeks  flushed,  and  the  letters  scat 
tered  around  her.  The  ribbon  had  slipped 
away,  and  her  heavy  white  hair  fell  over  her 
shoulders.  Ruth  went  to  her,  to  tie  it  back 
again,  but  she  put  her  away,  very  gently, 
without  speaking. 

Carl  stood  by  the  window,  thinking,  and 
Miss  Ainslie's  eyes  rested  upon  him,  with 


266  SLaven&er  ant>  <SHt>  3Lace 

wonder  and  love.  The  sunrise  stained  her 
white  face  and  her  eyes  shone  brightly,  as 
sapphires  touched  with  dawn.  The  first  ray 
of  the  sun  came  into  the  little  room  and  lay 
upon  her  hair,  changing  its  whiteness  to 
gleaming  silver.  Then  all  at  once  her  face 
illumined,  as  from  a  light  within. 

Carl  moved  away  from  the  window, 
strangely  drawn  toward  her,  and  her  face  be 
came  radiant  with  unspeakable  joy.  Then 
the  passion  of  her  denied  motherhood  swelled 
into  a  cry  of  longing  —  ' '  My  son !  " 

"Mother!"  broke  from  his  lips  in  answer. 
He  went  to  her  blindly,  knowing  only  that 
they  belonged  to  each  other,  and  that,  in 
some  inscrutable  way,  they  had  been  kept 
apart  until  it  was  too  late.  He  took  her  into 
his  arms,  holding  her  close,  and  whispering, 
brokenly,  what  only  she  and  God  might  hear. 
Ruth  turned  away,  sobbing,  as  if  it  was 
something  too  holy  for  her  to  see. 

Miss  Ainslie,  transfigured  with  unearthly 
light,  lifted  her  face  to  his.  Her  lips  quivered 
for  an  instant,  then  grew  cold  beneath  his 
own.  She  sank  back  among  the  pillows, 
with  her  eyes  closed,  but  with  yet  another 
glory  upon  the  marble  whiteness  of  her  face, 


Dawn 


267 


as  though  at  the  end  of  her  journey,  and  be 
yond  the  mists  that  divided  them,  her  dream 
had  become  divinely  true. 

Then  he,  who  should  have  been  her  son, 
bent  down,  the  tears  falling  unheeded  upon 
her  face,  and  kissed  her  again. 

THE  END. 


£>awn 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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